House of the Rising Sun
by SongofHopeandHonor
Summary: Revenge. It drives her forward, motivates her to pose as the illegitimate child of a Fire Nation noble. But can Katara navigate the web of lies and hatred that is the Fire Nation royal family? Zutara. *Cover art by beanaroony*
1. Another Sunrise

A/N: Hey, all! I know I have enough things to update, but this story has been swirling around in my mind for a while now. It's an AU, obviously, but not quite as AU-ish as my other chaptered fics ;D The basic premise is that Katara, determined to avenge her parents' deaths, passes herself off as the bastard child of a certain Fire Nation noble, so as to hunt down the man who killed her father and mother.

Yes, there will be Zutara, but I will say, without giving too much away, that Katara's going to develop feelings before Zuko does.

With that said, please leave me a review saying what you think! I worked very hard on this chapter, and I'm curious to hear your thoughts. Also, pointing out errors I misses is beyond appreciated. But enough from me; on with the show!

* * *

_I'm waking up to ash and dust_

_I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust_

_I'm breathing in the chemicals_

-Imagine Dragons,

"Radioactive"

* * *

Every morning, Katara's brother sits her down before the fire pit and works a whale-bone comb through her tangled spray of hair.

"You aren't mom," she always says, even as she gives in to the gentle pressure of Sokka's hand on her shoulder.

"Neither are you," he always reminds her, unfurling her hair from its frizzy braid and setting to work. She needs that reminder, he thinks. Too often, his younger sister takes the burden of premature motherhood on her shoulders. She's fifteen; she has only bled for a year and a half now.

Sokka wishes he weren't privy to_ that_ particular detail, but closed-knit families of two can't quite avoid the more gruesome details of each other's lives.

Usually, they're quiet while Sokka attends to the tangles in her hair. If they _do_ speak, they speak of trifles.

But not today.

"You don't look enough like them, Katara." Her brother's voice is a harsh and sudden in contrast to the gentle tug of the comb. "They won't believe that you carry their blood in your veins."

Katara moves her hands up to her face, cold-chapped fingers sliding over the bridge of her nose, her broad cheekbones. Clumpy lashes tickle her palms.

"My nose is almost narrow, like theirs," she says hopefully. "And I think my skin is a little lighter than yours." She does a better job of convincing herself than convincing her brother.

"You're fooling yourself, Kat." Sokka sets the comb aside and begins to twist Katara's hair into a practical plait.

"No!" She barks the word. She swivels around, hands clenched up on her thighs. "Put my hair up like _theirs_. I want to practice."

"Katara…" He says her name between his teeth, like he's holding back something caustic.

"Please?"

Oh, that isn't fair. It isn't fair of her to look at him with vulnerable eyes the color of the ocean under ice, and frown like he stepped on her toe or kicked her puppy.

It isn't fair, when she's all he has, and to deny her anything feels like the most selfish thing he could possibly do.

"Fine," he says, shoulders rounding, mouth drooping. He presses his hands onto her shoulders and turns her back around, picking through her hair. "Don't expect any miracles," he grumbles. He's studied the enemy, to the point where he can recite how many buckles they wear in their armor, how thickly plated their ships are. One thing he has _not _studied so closely is their hair fashions.

"Thank you," she says quietly, voice strained.

He grunts at her and continues to part her hair.

"You need to give up on this, Katara. Even if you could pass as half Fire Nation, there's no way in Yue's name that I would let you go on such a suicide mission."

"I never asked for your input," she clips. "_Gran-Gran_ would have let me go, you know."

"That's a load of penguin shit and you know it." He grows less gentle as his ire and worry mount. "Gran-Gran would have tied you to the igloo if it kept you from doing something so _stupid_."

"Revenge isn't stupid." Her voice shakes.

Sokka glares at the back of her head and bunches a section of her hair into a topknot. "You think _I_ don't want revenge, Katara?"

"If you do, you could have fooled me." Her tone is rebellious. Her spine is stiffer than a sheet of ice.

"You're wrong."

"Sure."

If she weren't a girl, and his sister on top of that, Sokka would bash her head against the igloo's wall until she came to what little was left of her senses.

"They were my parents, too." He's smoothing out the loose parts of her hair, neatening the topknot. "I loved them, too. Don't act as if you're the only one who suffers from it."

"I _don't_!" She smacks her palms against her legs and twists in place again. The tip of her nose is trembling. Her eyes are dull with an immortal grief. "I don't act like that! I'm doing this for you, too. For Gran-Gran, even though she's dead now. For our village."

"Killing that man won't change anything. It won't bring anyone back." He tries to reason with her. He knows he'll fail.

"One life for several." She's ignoring him, of course she is. "Sounds like a fair enough trade, I think."

"You don't have it in you to kill anyone." Except, maybe she does.

Her eyes snap. She looks strange, older, with her hair styled like that. It's a clumsy imitation of how a true Fire Nation citizen would wear their hair, but it makes enough of a difference to be eerie.

"Not just anyone—_the one._ The one who killed my parents in front of me." Her voice cracks like ice giving into a heavy weight.

"Katara…" His chest twinges. He wants to reach out to her, cradle her close like he did when they were little more than babies.

He knows, in the way only a sibling or close friend can, that she won't let him.

"You won't stop me. You can't watch me all the time." She pushes to her feet, stumbles over to a pitted chest stuffed with odds and ends. She sorts through scraps of fabric, bags of dried herbs, bottles of old, imported perfumes.

Her nostrils flare. Spirits, but this chest _reeks_. She curls her fingers around a scratched mirror that looks as if someone has dribbled dying embers across its surface.

Katara scrunches her nose, pulls her brows together. Her lips turn down in an attempt to look haughty and cruel.

Doesn't work.

The hairstyle helps. She doesn't see the clumsy execution of it. All she sees is a tumble of coarse hair, and a narrow topknot that declares _Fire Nation_.

She could say that she's mostly taken after her mother. And that_ is_ the truth.

She's grown up hearing people say, in voices that range from mournful to resentful to indifferent, that she has her mother's eyes.

_I can do this_, she tells her wavering reflection. _I can_.

And if she can't, well, there's no point in _anything_ anymore, now is there?

Iced wind slinks in through the gaps in their igloo. Her eyes drift around, and she wonders how long she'll be away from this place. But she hasn't really thought past the actual act of stopping that man's heart in his chest.

Best not to, in any case.

"How will you even get away? We only have one proper boat, which can't be manned on its own, and I can't see you paddling to the Fire Nation on a _raft_." Sokka's voice is pragmatic, but his eyes are fearful.

"I'll find a way. I always find a way."

That much, Sokka reflects darkly, is true.

The dirt floor shudders beneath them. The igloo shakes so violently that, for a very brief, adrenaline-fueled moment, Sokka fears that some colossus has picked it up and shaken it in stony hands.

Katara scrambles forward on her knees and latches onto Sokka with desperate hands, not sure if she means to protect him, or if she is reaching out to _be_ protected.

"What the seven hells—" Sokka bellows over the grating noise, pressing his sister's face into his shoulder.

Pressing her to the side, Sokka leaps up, grabs his boomerang, and pushes out of the igloo, leaving a sputtering Katara behind.

Now that the initial panic is over, he recognizes that sound. Just as he recognizes the gray blobs of ash that are sprinkling down along with the morning's snowfall.

His mouth is a grim slash, and his eyes have gone dull.

Not again. Don't these people ever get enough?

A huge hull has sliced through a significant portion of ice, sending up clouds of dull steam. Sokka braces his feet, fingers scraping the boomerang in his hand, and keeps a neutral expression. This isn't the first of the Fire Nation's little "expeditions". But he hasn't heard any rumors.

Katara scampers up beside him, her hair still caught up in that ridiculous topknot. She slips her fingers into his free hand and shoots him an odd look.

"Go back to the igloo, Katara," Sokka says from the corner of his mouth.

Other villagers have gathered round. Most of them are too young or too old. The strong ones are being employed in this lost cause of a war.

Sweat beads on Sokka's forehead in spite of the slamming cold.

"Not a chance," she whispers. "For all we know, _he _could be in that ship."

"As if you'd even recognize him."

"I'd _know_, Sokka, I would."

Any other protests fall silent on his numbed lips when the gangplank creaks open and lands on the cushion of snow, expelling even more steam as it does so. It's an ugly, dull black in contrast to this never-ending world of blue and white.

Katara scoots closer, pressing her nose into Sokka's shoulder, watching the proceedings with wary eyes.

Sokka's eyebrows do a slow climb when he sees who—or rather, what—strides down the gangplank. A—a teenager. His age, maybe a little older. A teenager decked in pointy, dull red Fire Nation armor, a helmet obscuring a decent portion of his face.

A teenager with squinting eyes and great, disfiguring scar.

Sokka's stomach does a slow roil and plummet.

Information travels even to isolated hunks of nothing like the South Pole. Burn scars must be a common enough occurrence in the Fire Nation—but only _one_ scarred person is important enough to be talked about.

Crown Prince Zuko.

Sokka feels like he's going to vomit on the snow. Maybe he will. He braces his legs farther apart and does his best to obscure Katara with his body.

A double line of soldiers follow the scarred teenager, their steps so synchronized that they might as well be different pieces of one great hive mind. _Their_ faces are completely obscured by their helmets, making the teenager stand out all the more.

Yes, yes, Sokka is going to be sick.

"Get back to your business," the scarred boy barks, his voice a harsh scrape on the still air. "This is nothing more than a routine inspection. The better you cooperate, the sooner I can leave." The last sentence is spoken in a resentful mutter.

"Or you could just leave now," a brave voice pipes up from the knot of villagers.

The scarred boy—please, please, please, for the love of all that is good, don't let it be Prince Zuko—snaps his head in the direction of the voice, upper lip curling on a snarl. The feral expression only serves to make him look all the more ugly.

"Care to repeat that, colonial? Or better yet, step away from your peers and face up to your insolence like a man?"

"We aren't your colonials!" Sokka throws out, in spite of his reluctance to draw the scarred boy's attention to himself (and therefore his sister).

"Certainly, you're rebellious, troublesome colonials, but colonials all the same." The intruder's voice goes as smooth and cold as the ice at their feet. He presses one foot in front of the other in a slow step forward. His hands are fisted behind his back. "The sooner you realize this, the sooner you can stop wasting your men's lives in a pointless cause."

The skin around Sokka's eyes twitch. "The sooner your people realize what you're doing is wrong, the sooner we can get _back_ to our lives."

"Thrilling lives they must be, too." Scarred Boy casts a dismissive glance around the landscape (or lack, thereof), nose crinkling when he spots the clutch of igloos and huts. "You're living in the lap of luxury, I see."

"Fuck off," Sokka bites out.

Scarred Boy snorts, even as a muscle in his forehead ticks. "And so witty. Your parents must be proud."

From beyond Sokka's shoulder, Katara hisses.

_No, no no no, don't get his attention, no—_

"What do we have here?" the scarred, pale boy drawls, pacing around Sokka and eyeing Katara up and down. "Is this your girlfriend?"

"She's my sister, asshole!" He immediately wants to grab the words from thin air and stuff them back down his throat. Letting the enemy know who's important to him. Not a good move.

"Hmm. I see. There's certainly a family resemblance, though I must say that all Water peasants look much the same to me."

"And all Fire Nation _bastards_ look the same to me." It's a weak retort. Doesn't matter. All that matters is diverting the guy's attention away from Katara.

"Interesting hairstyle choice." His men are swarming around the village, ducking into huts, patting down dazed looking residents. But _he's_ utterly focused on the teenagers before him. "I didn't know styles from my homeland were in fashion in this…isolated corner of the planet."

Katara and Sokka are both mute.

"What my sister does with her hair is none of your damned business." Sokka presses Katara tighter to his side.

"Simple observation, peasant. No need to work yourself up over it."

"_Nephew_. This is a routine check. Just what do you think you are doing, breaking protocol and harassing the locals?"

"This _entire thing_ is a form of harassment," Sokka mutters.

A short, stumpy man is shuffling into view, his grizzled topknot bristling, his wide face crumpled with dismay. As if he somehow expected better from the scarred boy.

"Zuko, did you hear me? Leave the young man and woman alone."

Ah, so he _is_ Prince Zuko. Sokka figured as much.

"I've done nothing wrong." Is that…a pout of all things in Prince Zuko's voice? Sokka openly rolls his eyes.

"I am so sorry for my nephew's behavior." The old man clamps his hand around the back of Zuko's helmet and forces the boy's head into a shallow bow. "He is grumpy after being away from home for so many weeks."

"Grumpy, huh?" This guy is…almost normal, and damn near affable, for a Fire Nation citizen. "I would have bet my money on 'constipated'."

The old man places square hands on his substantial stomach and rumbles out a laugh. "That is also a distinct possibility, young man."

"Uncle Iroh, _please_," Prince Zuko grits, pulling a face. He tosses his head to the side and shouts at his men, "That's enough for today. Move out."

"Iroh…?" Katara perks up, taking a trembling step forward. "Your name is Iroh?"

"_General_ Iroh to you, little girl," Prince Zuko bites out, leveling a glare at Katara. "Have more respect for your betters."

"Have some respect for _ladies_," Iroh chides, casting Katara a smile that's almost kind. "Yes, dear, that is my name. And you are?" The question is innocuous, polite, nothing more.

Katara trembles all over, clasping her hands at her throat. She swallows tightly, steps forward again. Sokka wants to tug her back. But his limbs feel as if they've been filled with the steel that coats the invading ship.

"I…doubt you'll remember me. It's been—well, I don't think you ever met me at all, actually." Katara fumbles forward, reaches out to squeeze the old man's hands in hers. Her next words tumble from her mouth like stones into a still body of water. "I'm Katara, sir. I'm your daughter."


	2. Clumsy Deceit

A/N:Wow this came out early. I can't guarantee constantly speedy updates like this, especially with college and all that, but I hope you like this latest chapter! The amazing bulletproofteacup on tumblr beta'd this, and I can only hope that this story has improved thanks to her! She really offered some insightful suggestions, and I hope I wrote them well! Thanks again, sweetheart!

Anyway, I would love to hear what you all think about this! This story is really close to my heart, so if you have the time, leave a review and tell me what you think, be it positive or negative. And, as always, constructive input is my favorite kind of input! :D

* * *

_I can't slow down, I can't go back_

_Though you know I wish I could_

-Cage the Elephant,

"Ain't No Rest for the Wicked"

* * *

Fire flashes two inches away from Katara's eyes. She yelps and yanks her head back before the flames can singe off her lashes.

"You have some _nerve_, peasant." Prince Zuko's palm cups a tiny bonfire. Flames twist around his fingers, and yet he doesn't flinch, as if the fire is just another extension of his arm.

"_You_ have some nerve shoving a handful of fire in_ my_ _face_!" She's tempted to bend a clump of snow at him, but doesn't for two reasons: one, she isn't very confident in her bending abilities

Two, she isn't sure if their knowing she's a Waterbender will help or hinder her.

Going by the scowl on Prince Zuko's ugly face, she is placing her bets on the latter.

General Iroh shoves his substantial girth between the scowling teenagers. He levels a warning glare at Sokka, who's lifted his boomerang in an offensive stance.

"Do not even think about it, young man."

"The fucker nearly burned my sister's face off!"

Zuko goes pale under his already fair complexion. His mouth works soundlessly. He slants his head, squinting at a clump of snow by his feet.

"For that, I apologize." His husky voice is strained. "I lost my temper."

"Clearly," Sokka bites out, shackling a hand around Katara's forearm and yanking her back to his side. "Lose it again, and I'll show you just what the Water Tribe is capable of."

"I'm positively _quaking_." The taller boy rolls a pair of lopsided eyes.

Sokka shuffles in place. Katara bands an arm over his shoulders and shakes her head.

"Before anyone works themselves up again—" General Iroh clasps his hands, billowing sleeves flopping across his knuckles "—would you mind repeating your earlier statement, Miss Katara?"

"Her earlier _blasphemy_, you mean—" Zuko's mouth snaps shut when General Iroh shoves a finger against his lips. The prince's eyes cross, staring at the stubby finger as if he isn't quite sure what it's doing there.

"I don't recall asking for your input, Prince Zuko." Iroh's hand snaps back into place. He folds burly arms and shoots Katara a curious look. "Did you just say you're my daughter, young lady?"

When the old general says _daughter_, Prince Zuko seems to choke on air. He looks like he might have an apoplexy, but at least he remains relatively still and silent, aside from a bit of agitated shifting in place.

"Yes, sir, that's right." Katara nods her head confidently. Sokka swallows a lump in his throat. He wants to shout that she's lying, that she's rocketing through some half-assed plan full of deceit.

But if he says that, well, would it work in their favor or against it?

So he clamps his lips together and holds his sister tighter to his side.

"And just what made you reach this conclusion?" General Iroh's voice is skeptical, to say the least, but it's also kind. "Is _he_ my child as well?" A shallow nod at Sokka.

"No, he's my half-brother." The lies tumble from her mouth as easy as breathing. "We have the same mother, that's it."

The lies aren't entirely wild. It isn't uncommon for Fire Nation soldiers to have affairs with the women of the lands they conquered. And General Iroh, a prince of his nation, has _surely _had his fair share of…dalliances.

And surely, surely, he's too preoccupied with his oh-so-important life to pay attention to the names, or even the faces, of the women he's been with.

Katara has been planning on passing herself off as a Fire Nation bastard for a while now. She did _not _premeditate passing herself off as a _prince's_ bastard.

"I see." General Iroh drums his fingers against the curve of his belly and eyes Katara up and down. "I must say, I do not recall having an…affair in recent years. How old are you, miss? Twelve? Thirteen?"

"Fifteen," she corrects him, something in her voice cracking. "I'm fifteen, sir."

Sokka's stomach does a slow roll and drops into his feet at the speculative look in General Iroh's eyes. Speculative, but not derisive or angry at all.

Surely, for the love of all the Spirits, the old coot _cannot_ be buying into this.

"_Uncle_," Prince Zuko barks, his umbrage clearly getting the better of him, "surely you can't be _considering_ this. She's lying and wasting our time!"

"Again, Prince Zuko, I will ask for your input when I want it. At this moment, I do _not_ want it." He steps closer to Katara and squints into her eyes. He's not much taller than her. He's built sturdy and short, much like she is.

Perhaps that will work in her favor when she's searched for signs of a family resemblance.

"What is your mother's name, young lady?"

"Was—she's dead now." There, some truth to lighten the streaks of lies. Saying the word _dead _aloud in regards to her mother physically pains Katara. Her chest knots up tight, goes numb. "Her name…her name was Kya." Another truth.

"Kya." The old man's lips purse. "I do believe I spent some time with a lady friend whose name began with a _K_, but…" General Iroh's small eyes go hard. For a moment, Sokka fears that he will slap Katara across the face for her insolence. Sokka goes tense and prepares to step in front of his sister.

Then the old man's lips fold on a friendly smile. "Would you like to share tea with me on the ship, Miss Katara?"

Sokka and Zuko sputter out protests in tandem: "What—no—what are you even doing—"

"Silence," Iroh barks, his affable expression fading away on a stern scowl. "You will show respect around women, both of you."

Sokka's jaw clamps shut just as Zuko's lips seal tight. They shoot poisonous looks at each other over their respective relative's heads.

"I promise not to sail away with your sister, young man. I simply wish to speak further with her and offer her some good tea while I do so."

"Let me go with you." The demand is automatic, as instinctive as breathing.

"You may come aboard the ship with us, but I am going to speak with Miss Katara in private, if you don't mind."

"I _do_ mind."

General Iroh scrubs his nails on his armor before shivering at the pressing cold. "That is just your problem, then, isn't it."

Zuko's lips curl on a nasty smirk. His eyes go smug.

"Prince Zuko may keep you company."

Prince Zuko's smirk falls away quickly as it came. He sucks in his cheeks and glares at the polar sky.

* * *

People in the village wonder just what's going on, of course. They gather in curious knots outside of their huts and igloos, too wary of the soldiers on guard to venture near the ship's hull. It stands out like some colossal demon against the South Pole's empty landscape.

And this demon has swallowed up two of their own, for reasons the tribe members cannot begin to guess at.

They don't know of Katara's plan. If they did, they would accuse her of insanity.

Even _Katara_ isn't all that certain of her plan as she twitches nervously around below deck. She's been escorted to a cabin. It's padded and draped all over with varying shades of red and black. The aesthetic brings to mind the inside of some monster's belly.

Her stomach roils. She clamps her hands over her abdomen and forces herself to breathe.

She folds up her legs and sits by a low table, tracing fingers over the smooth edges. If she keeps her hands moving, her mind might fall still. At least, that's what she hopes against hope for.

She swears that they're making her wait on purpose, a subtle form of torture.

Now that the pump of adrenaline is draining away, she begins to second guess herself. She casts her eyes around the poorly lit room. Assesses it. Searches for possible weapons (Sokka taught her to do these things).

Her desperation has led her down a path scattered with blades and stones. There is one slim shot that she'll get out of here and find _that man_. If not for that desperation, the words "I'm your daughter" would never have bubbled up her throat and into the icy air.

The door bumps open, and General Iroh plods in with a rattling tray of fine bone china. The smile he gives her is friendly, if distant. He folds his legs and settles down beside her, plunking the tray onto the table.

"So. My daughter, is it?"

Katara's mouth is dry. She stares at him blankly, eyes as glassy as a doll's.

Iroh reaches out and pinches her chin between stubby, rough fingers and squints into her eyes. Her first instinct is to slap his hand away. But she forces herself to stay still as stone, in spite of the automatic boiling hatred that rises in her gullet.

How can she possibly pretend to be one of them if their mere touch makes her want to spew vomit?

Iroh releases her face and settles back on his haunches, yellow-brown eyes opaque.

"I hope you realize," he says evenly, "that falsely claiming to be a part of the royal family is considered high treason."

All of her blood rushes from her heart up into her head. It makes her brain feel clotted with blood, heavy as a bag of stones. It flushes her face. Katara has never come close to fainting before in her life, not even when the reality of her parents' deaths sunk in.

She _is_ going to faint_, right now_.

Iroh's voice reaches her distantly, like he's speaking over the deafening crack of a splitting glacier. "You could be executed. Do you realize this?"

Oh. _Oh_.

Clarity snaps back into place. Her blood settles back into the proper places, though it is chilled.

"I didn't think that far ahead." Her voice is crackly, lower than usual.

"You must regulate your impulses if you wish to go anywhere in life, young woman. If you wish to _keep_ your life."

He pushes a scalding cup of tea into her loose hands, wrapping her fingers tight around it. He leaves his hands there until he is certain that she won't drop the cup.

"It's oolong. Try it; it's good." He sips meditatively at his own cup, and his eyes fall shut.

His eyes are closed. She could bend a scalding stream of tea over his head (maybe) and use the time to escape. She could.

"Don't even think about it." His eyes are still shut. "Whatever you're planning, it won't work." Now they flick open, study her blandly. "Not to mention the trouble it would cause for your brother."

The last statement is not a threat. It is fact and nothing more.

Katara's shoulders slump.

"I wasn't going to do anything," she mutters, swishing the tea back and forth in its cup.

"You've already proven yourself a poor liar, Miss Katara. No need to underscore it."

Her lips peel back on a snarl.

Iroh is unimpressed.

"I have never had a…relationship with a woman of the Water Tribe, to my knowledge."

Oh, so he's had so many affairs that he can't be certain of just who he's dallied with? Vile, but she expected as much.

"You should have done your research, young woman. Just _what_ compelled you to impersonate my bastard child?"

"I needed someone important," Katara mumbles, giving up on lies (for the time being).

She _does_. The arrival of an important man, of the right age range, on this Spirits forsaken hunk of ice, is nothing short of a miracle. Perhaps she was stupid to lie so compulsively. But never taking advantage of such a shining opportunity—that would be stupider.

"May I inquire why you need someone important?" Gravelly voice, gentle phrasing. Why isn't he angry yet? Why hasn't he tossed her to his vicious nephew?

"One of your…people took something important away from me." How much to give away, how much to keep to herself? Which slice of information will work in her favor?

"And that important thing would be?" He shifts in place, scratches his substantial belly.

Katara pushes the teacup to her mouth, slurps. Pulls a face. Churns around.

"You're in no position to withhold information, young lady."

If he calls her _young lady_ one more time, she will crush the teacup and sprinkle the shards in his hair.

"My parents." Her voice rips out of her throat, rockets into the cabin's stuffy air. "A Fire Nation soldier killed them. Without mercy." She whispers the last word. _Mercy_. Something she has no intention of giving the murdering son of a slimy bitch.

Her fingers twitch. Her throat burns. Were fire her element, she would be breathing it, she's so angry.

"I thought…if I got to the Fire Nation…that I could find him. If I become important, I would have _resources_ to find him. And then I…" She peters off. Folds her lips tightly and breaks eye contact.

"Could kill him?"

Katara sucks in her cheeks and neither confirms nor denies.

"So this war has orphaned you and that brash brother of yours. To be honest, I'm not so surprised." Iroh pries the teacup out of her fingers (fingers gone stiff as a carcass's) and sets it on the table with a muted _thunk_.

"Many people have been robbed by this war—including _my _people."

She snorts. She turns her head and glares at a draping tapestry the color of dried blood, with a flame-shaped emblem smeared over its middle.

"Are you so naïve to think that casualties only happen on one side of a war? That only one side suffers? That only one group grows bitter at all the waste?"

"If your people are so bitter about the war, they should end it!" she flares.

"Things are not as simple as that, child."

"I am _not_ a child!"

"I would beg to differ, young woman." _Young woman_ is irritating, but she'll take it over _child_. "You must shed that naiveté if you wish to pass yourself off as my daughter when we land at the Fire Nation."

"I told you, I'm _not_—" She stutters to a halt. Her mind swirls in a whirlpool of confusion, relief, displacement.

She was wrong. _Now_ she's going to faint. She's going to tip over and land in a teacup.

"Pardon?" Katara squeaks.

"I am not inclined to repeating myself unless my conversational partner is hard of hearing. You seem to be well off enough in that area."

He refills his teacup; offers her more. Mutely, she shakes her head.

"I told you, you may be executed for treason. If I tell them that you aren't my daughter now, you will be arrested, and there's nothing even I can do about it. Do you want to die, Miss Katara?"

No. Not yet. Not until she—

"No," she whispers.

"Then you are my daughter, and I am taking you home with me." She opens her mouth. He slices up a hand and cuts her off. "Even if you weren't determined to hunt down that soldier, I would have to take you in any case. My brother, the Fire Lord, is a…curious man."

Oh. So it's really happening. She isn't going to be arrested and executed for treason. They're bringing her to the Fire Nation, not to kill her, but—

In her lap, her hands clench and fold. They rub over the coarse material of her parka—the homespun fabric, the trim of fur, reminds her of where she's from, reminds her that this farce of hers will take all of her limited powers of deceit to pull off.

"You will be under a great amount of suspicion, and only my word will save you. Until you earn my family's trust, that is—and I can assure you of this much, young lady: that trust will not be easily earned by any stretch of the imagination."

She nods again, a convulsive bob.

"Your brother will have to stay here. Do you object to that?"

"No." _Yes._ She will miss him with all of herself, would long for that comfort and closeness only siblings who have been forced to take care of each other could achieve. But it's _because_ she loves him so much that she's leaving him behind.

He won't understand, he will fight, but not even Sokka can take down a platoon of armed soldiers and a Firebending prince.

"No, I don't object. He needs to…to stay here. Where he's…safe."

"Safe as any place can be, in any case." In a surprisingly liquid movement, General Iroh pushes to his feet and dusts his hands together. "Wait here for a moment. I'm going to confer the news to the soldiers and your…cousin. It's his ship, after all."

"Isn't he a bit young to be in charge of an entire ship?" Her brow crinkles. She's curious in spite of herself. "How can his parents let him do that?"

"His father, my brother, is…a very hands-off sort of parent."

She's about to pry more, but Iroh has left, taking the tray with him.

The minute he's gone, she wraps her arms over her stomach and hunches in on herself, pressing her forehead to the warm floor. Now that this is becoming a reality, rather than some revenge-fueled fantasy, she's not so sure how she feels about this.

She wants to jump with victory. She wants to vomit up her fear. She's being ripped in half, becoming two Kataras—one who is darkly gleeful over this opportunity to finally realize her dream. The other is sick with the thought of leaving home and possibly being executed in the process.

She hears the door click open and slap shut. She glances up from under a tangle of hair, expecting Iroh—and snaps back into a sitting position.

Katara shifts up onto her knees, ready to fight, ready to run. Whichever works. Whatever keeps him away from her.

She will _not_ die, not yet, she needs to finish this first. And from the way he's looking at her, he just might want to kill her.

"Katara, was it?" His voice is pleasantly husky in contrast to his twisted visage. He has shed the helmet—most of his head is bare, save for a high, dark tail of hair. With the helmet gone, even more of that twisted scar is visible, wrapping around to warp one of his ears. She wonders what he would look like without that scar.

She decides she doesn't care.

Katara notches down her chin on a cautious nod and climbs to her feet. Her fingers curl. She wants her waterskin, but she left it in the igloo—and the tea is gone. There's no water to bend. The heat is too dry for her to draw some from the air.

Furthermore, she isn't skilled enough to pull that off under duress.

"According to my uncle, you are not, in fact, a liar." He paces in a short line across the room, coming to stand so close to her that she can see every individual groove in his scar. His armor, red and full of sharp angles, makes him look like a demon.

Her chest tightens. Anger flares.

"My father remembers my mother," Katara clips. She pulls her stifling parka tighter to her throat.

"You have no right to call him your father," Zuko hisses, shoving his face so close to hers that their noses brush.

"But he _is_ my father," she retorts, the lie rendered smooth by her anger.

His hands grind down on her shoulders; he's pushing her into a wall, bristling in her face. She hears her bones creak from the pressure of his hands on her. His too-hot breath fans over her face, trickles down her throat.

"I don't know how you pulled off fooling Uncle Iroh," he grits, pushing her harder into the wall for emphasis, "but you haven't tricked me, you filthy little _peasant_."

* * *

A/N: So how was that, guys? If you have any thoughts, please, please review C: I respond to all reviews, unless they're anonymous, unless you all think I should make a section at the bottom half of each chapter to respond to reviews? Y'all should tell me what you think of that too, if you'd like.

x, Song


	3. Harsh Words

A/N: This is the longest chapter to date! It's also unbeta'd, so if anyone catches any errors or has any advice, please tell me in the reviews/a pm. I would love to hear everyone's thoughts regarding this chapter, because it was harder to write than the last two, ha.

Speaking of, thank you all so so much for the last chapter's reviews! I smile so much whenever I see one, ehe. Your feedback and interest is really appreciated. And to address a question posed by raidersfan777, yes, Zuko has his season 1 hair in this story. What can I say, I have a weakness for Season 1 Zuko.

There's quite a bit more Zuko-Katara interaction in this chapter! And with that, I shall shut up ;)

* * *

_Think of me in the depths of your despair,_

_Making a home down there as mine sure won't be shared_

-Adele,

"Rolling in the Deep"

* * *

Katara pushes her layers of clothing off one shoulder and examines her skin for bruises. There are pale purplish outlines imprinted there. The bruises are vaguely shaped like fingers.

"You will leave that young woman alone, Zuko," Iroh's voice berates his nephew from the other side of the steel-plated door. "You weren't raised to brutalize women, and I expected better of you."

"I didn't_ brutalize_ her!" Zuko's voice cracks like polar ice. His words are firm, but his tone is uncertain…and almost _guilty,_ if Katara judges it correctly.

"You put your hands on her; when I came back into the room you'd _pushed her into a wall_." Iroh's words fall harshly, bluntly. He is a comforting presence (for a Fire Nation citizen) but he doesn't seem one to coddle those who need blunt words more than pretty lies.

Katara can't help but admire him a tiny bit for that, underneath the hate she feels.

"I wasn't _doing_ anything to her!" For some reason, Prince Zuko's voice goes high pitched with what might be embarrassment, or—or _something_. "I lost my temper, all right? I lost my temper and I wanted to know what she's up to."

"What could she possibly be up to?" There is a pause. "She's my daughter, Zuko."

Katara hears a strangled sound that's almost a _scream_. Katara flinches in place, eyes goggling. She folds stiff fingers into her parka and sits very, very still.

"Uncle, stop this nonsense now! I don't know what's motivating you to l—" His sentence cuts off with a muffled grunt. Katara strains her ears and walks on her knees, creeping closer to the door. Did General Iroh…slap a hand over Zuko's mouth or something?

Katara strains harder. She braces her hands on the slick metal floor and crawls over to press her ear to the door. There seems to be a muffled argument taking place on the other side, but they're being so quiet now that she can't make out more than the occasional grunt of irritation.

Katara's dark brow crumples. She licks lips gone dry and concentrates, but there's really nothing to be heard. If anything, she's quite sure that their voices get even quieter as the seconds pass—like they're walking away now.

Growling softly, the Waterbender falls back on her haunches and rolls her eyes up to the low ceiling.

The heat of this place is getting to her in all the wrong ways—she feels like she's been tossed into a bonfire. Katara yanks her parka over her head with great, jerky movements and tosses it to the side. It lands with a heavy, muffled sound.

At least she's no longer sweltering quite as much.

She wants to pace, but suppresses the urge. She counts the nails jammed into the metal-plated walls, traces the patterns of the Fire Nation emblems that are splashed about the place with her eyes.

There is a scream building in her chest. If she thinks too hard about what's going on, it will rip free and push her over an edge.

The door creaks open again, rusty hinges making it squeal. Katara stiffens and locks eyes with Prince Zuko.

The look he shoots her is perfunctory, like she's a bundle of goods he plans to purchase. His gaze dehumanizes her, and she wants to strike him for it.

"So you _are_ a girl under those layers. Could have fooled me."

Katara's mouth drops open. She clenches her teeth and hisses at him.

"Uncle wanted me to watch you while he spoke to your…people." Zuko begins to clip back and forth from one side of the boxy room to the other. Katara is careful to sit well out his way, watching his feet lift and fall and twist. The toes of his boots come to curling points.

The Fire Nation makes poor fashion choices, Katara decides. Out loud, she says, "Why is he speaking to them? I would be better off giving them the news. They don't hate _me_."

"I wouldn't count on that. You're the spawn of their enemy, if you are to be believed." His smile is more of a parting of lips and a show of teeth than an actual expression of anything resembling happiness.

Will they believe it? Katara's mouth works soundlessly and her mind turns in circles. Probably not. Would anyone other than her protest overmuch at her departure?

She honestly isn't sure about that one.

"At least they_ know_ me," Katara tries again, threading her fingers together over and over in a restless pattern.

"Not anymore, they don't." Prince Zuko shakes his head, ponytail swinging, and shoots her a derisive look, like she's a child who just told him that penguins puke rainbows.

"If you are to be believed—" Always with that quantifier "—then you are not who they thought you were. You have toxin in your veins, in their minds."

"Blood doesn't make a person!" she says with far more passion than she meant to. She's raised herself up on her knees, and her eyes snap a vivid blue in the red and black swirl of this stupid _box_ of a room. But then she catches herself and falls back on her haunches.

He pauses, scarred face twisting with something she has no chance of naming, and snorts. "I expected such naiveté from a peasant."

"If blood makes a person," she challenges, moving up onto her knees again, defiant, "then I'm no peasant."

"To me, you are." He says this flatly as a teacher giving lessons by rote. "And a liar on top of that."

"But you just said—"

"I'm speaking from your _countrymen's_ perspective. _They_ will see your blood as tainted if they believe your lies."

"And _you_ see my blood as tainted because you_ don't_ believe me," she says, understanding.

"Not tainted. Just…" A lazy shrug. "Lesser."

Now she scrambles all the way to her feet. If his sheer physical presence didn't intimidate her, she would shove a finger into his breast plate and hiss in his face. Maybe she _will_, if she gets a little bit angrier.

"Who are _you_ to judge my background!"

He makes a great _aha_ motion with his hands and arms, and begins to pace with renewed vigor. "That's the thing, peasant! You do the very same to my people! I can see the contempt in your eyes—in the eyes of every colonial I've ever met!"

"Not without good reason!" If there were water in here, it would be swishing back and forth with the force of her ire. "Your people are bullies!"

"You know nothing—"

"I know enough!"

She doesn't quite know how it happened, but now they're practically standing on top of one another, the bridges of their noses grazing, sneering into one another's faces. Her feet are between his. It's just like before—she can count the ridges and grooves in that thick scar. Can make out the flecks in his eyes. One eye is fringed by luxurious black lashes. The other has no lashes to speak of, or even an eyebrow above it.

Another person would recoil from that hideous mess on the left side of Prince Zuko's face, but Katara has seen worse. She's only vaguely curious about how he got it.

Of course, considering the element he bends, surely he's been in his fair share of accidents.

_I hope it hurt like hell_, Katara thinks spitefully. No physical pain could be comparable to what _she's_ gone through.

"You know nothing," he repeats on a low gurgle, "and if I have my way, you'll be off this ship before nightfall."

And he turns on his heel, stomping out of the cabin, before she can get another word in.

* * *

Sokka won't look at her.

She passes her hands over his face, runs them over the shaved sides of his head, and clutches him close. But his eyes have gone pale as ice and dead as winter, and he won't look at her.

That fact alone almost convinces her to stay.

Almost.

But vengeance has rooted itself in her heart and grown into a poisonous, beautiful plant. It shoots branches through her veins, settles new shoots of growth in her arteries. If she cuts it at the roots, she will die along with it.

And sometimes the darker emotions are stronger than pure ones like the love you can hold for a sibling. And if not stronger…well, they're certainly louder.

Her people shift around in their village. They shoot her looks of betrayal and skepticism. A few of the small children cry. An old woman who knew her grandmother clucks in the general direction of the Fire Nation soldiers.

"Sokka?" Katara asks, her voice so gentle that it strains her throat. "Sokka, please look at me." She tries to coax him into eye contact.

He looks over her shoulder, focusing on a drifting ice cap. His mouth is a hard line. The Prince, the General, and the soldiers are lined up by the ship's hull. Prince Zuko's foot taps out an impatient rhythm. Every so often, Katara hears him expel his breath on a loud _huff_.

Katara wants to whirl around and strike him until he quiets, but she's too focused on the broken boy who stands still as a doll in her arms.

"Sokka?" she tries again, running her thumbs over his cheekbones. His cheekbones are broad like hers; they have the same squared off jaw, though hers is still softened by a layer of baby fat. Their skin is almost the exact same shade of warm brown. They could be twins, she swears this sometimes.

All of her people are sturdy and squared off. They don't share the soft roundness of the Earth people (she's met two or three, traders and refugees). They're nowhere near the pale, sharp angles that make up those of the Fire Nation.

They are strong, her people, in a quiet way. But they know how to bend without breaking, how to adapt to change and oppression. And she's leaving them behind.

They will adapt without her, as they always do. Sokka will adapt, too.

Eventually.

Out of nowhere, he grips her by the forearms and presses their noses together. His eyes are vivid and snapping with anger. His face is so close that those eyes blur together.

"If you die there…I'll kill you. I'll go into the Spirit World, bring you back to life, and kill you all over again."

A muscle in his throat jumps. Katara threads her arms under his and hugs him so tight that they share a heartbeat.

"You won't have to do that." Katara presses her nose to her brother's throat and really _hugs_ him in a way she hasn't since she was a little girl. "I won't die. I _won't_."

Katara wonders why he isn't fighting this harder. Has General Iroh told him the consequences of the truth coming out…? That's the only viable reason she can think of.

"You'd better not," he rasps, before pulling back far enough to meet her eyes. His hands move up to cup her shoulders in a tight grip. "If I have to lose you anyway, I'd rather not lose you for good."

His voice shakes. She wonders if he'll cry.

"You'll never lose me, Sokka. I promise." _She's_ going to cry. She can feel the pressure building in her tear ducts. Her throat shakes with gulped-back sobs. "I promise."

He grabs her tight again, passes rough fingers over her tumble of loose hair. "I'll hold you to that, Katara." He speaks over her shoulder, still cradling her to his chest. "If any of you put one _toe_ out of line when it comes to my sister, I'll swim across the oceans to make sure you wake up dead in your cots."

"Oh, tough guy," someone mumbles—then yelps, as if another person jabbed an elbow into their ribs.

"You have my word that your sister…my daughter…will be treated as the Lady she is." This from Iroh; a gravelly, gentle reassurance.

Sokka twitches at the word _daughter_, but otherwise appears to be unmoved. "And I'll hold _you_ to that…General." Her brother's voice isn't respectful…but nor is it brimming with contempt. It's almost…civil.

"I would expect no less from a warrior such as yourself."

Katara thinks she feels Sokka's chest puff up with pride. He fumbles something cool and hard into her hand—it's a bone dagger, she sees when she glances down.

"Hide that away," Sokka whispers under the guise of holding his sister closer, "in your clothes. I don't think the General will let them strip search you."

Katara gulps.

Sokka squeezes her again. She fumbles the knife into a pocket sewn into her parka and dries her tears on Sokka's shoulder. It's really hitting her now—she's leaving this place, leaving Sokka, and she doesn't know when (she refuses to think _if_) she'll see him again.

Katara hitches her sleeping roll, stuffed full of her meager belongings, higher up on her shoulders and gives Sokka one last hug. She does her best to make up for all the time they'll be apart.

She won't let him lose her.

But for now…

She lets him go.

* * *

The first thing Katara does when she climbs onto the boat's deck is drop her pack of belongings and vomit over the ship's side.

"For a Water peasant, who grew up surrounded by _water_, you're certainly adjusting poorly to this," Prince Zuko observes from over her shoulder, arms folded, legs braced wide. He arches his one good brow and wonders if he should be a gentleman and hold back her hair.

Her body heaves again, and retching sounds, along with the sour smell of vomit, float to him on the breeze.

He crinkles his nose and decides that no, no he shouldn't.

"Shut—up," she pants between heaves, swiping her hand over her mouth. Her body quakes again, a great wave down her spine, and she vomits up another stream of digested food and stomach acids.

"Do you need a healer?" he asks, reluctant to help her, but not certain if he should just let her puke over the side of the boat without doing anything about it. "Because we have a medic on board…"

"I—am—quite—fine." The hunk of ice that is her home is shrinking by the second, little more than a white blur on a sheet of pale blue.

"I'm no medical expert, but you don't sound very fine." Grumbling—she has some _nerve_ forcing him into this situation—Zuko grabs her hair with brusque hands and yanks it away from her face. Strings of vomit are caught in a few locks of coarse hair, and he shudders.

Disgusted as he is, Zuko isn't entirely unsympathetic to the Water peasant's plight. The first time he stepped onto a boat, Zuko had flung his upper body over its side and proceeded to spew out his breakfast and some of the night before's dinner.

Not to mention that his legs wouldn't stop trembling like a piece of parchment in the breeze for a good week or so.

"You're clearly seasick," Zuko presses on. He berates himself for this small kindness, but he's not so cruel as others would believe. She's a child, and she's vomiting as if she's eaten a week's worth of spoiled foods.

The heaves slow, and eventually stop all together. Zuko steps neatly to the side and watches her with careful yellow eyes.

"…I'm not seasick," Katara bites out, bracing her elbow's on the ship's railing (much as he often has) and squinting at her disappearing village. It's gone from a blob to something closer to a speck. "I just…"

"Finally thinking about what you've done?" She jumps, because the words ghost over her ear. A long line of heat touches her back. He's standing _right there_. The ridges of her armor press into her parka. "Too late to turn back, _peasant_."

"Kissing cousins, huh?" a coarse voice hollers. Zuko yelps and jumps away from Katara, leaving her frozen in place.

"Be silent before I toss you over the boat's side for insubordination!" Zuko shouts. Embarrassment colors his voice, because while such an image certainly wasn't his intent…now his entire crew will believe he…harassed his own _cousin_.

Cousin. Zuko turns on his heel and paces to the opposite end of the deck. _Cousin._ Right. What kind of fool does this brat take them for? What kind of fool has Uncle Iroh morphed into, to go along with this?

Maybe Azula's right. Maybe their uncle really has lost his crackers.

Zuko's eyes pass over floating chunks of ice—bigger chunks that make up glaciers, smaller chunks that even a child would have a difficult time balancing on. So much ice. And cold. Zuko shivers in his armor, concentrates, and gradually brings up his body temperature.

He feels eyes drilling into his skull and tilts his head to scowl at the Water peasant. She scowls back. He scowls harder, and steam trickles from his flared nostrils.

"Daughter." Uncle Iroh bustles into view and takes the peasant's hands in his. Now _Zuko_ wants to retch. "Are you feeling unwell, my dearest? Seasick, perhaps?"

She shakes her head, snarls of brown hair swinging with the motion. "No, just…homesick already, I guess."

"Literally, it would seem. Perhaps some tea would help to calm your stomach."

Of course Uncle would suggest that. Zuko folds his arms and watches the proceedings from a distance, eyes narrow. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

"I…I think I'll be fine," The Water peasant—he doesn't want to call her by name—folds her hands over her abdomen, like she's holding something in, and smiles tremulously. "Thank you…"

"You may call me Father." Uncle Iroh's face creases jovially. "'Daddy' is also acceptable."

Zuko feels like he's choking on a hunk of food. He sputters and goes blue in the face.

Katara blinks into General Iroh's beaming countenance and bites back a hysterical laugh. "I think…Father will do."

Iroh shrugs, pats Katara's hands, and turns so his shoulder brushes hers. He gestures to the crewmembers that are lingering on-deck, and the armored men gather in a bunch around the General and his "daughter".

A lot of them have removed their helmets, or at least adjusted the face-pieces so that they no longer look like faceless ghouls. There are real _men_ under there, with skin lined and darkened by the sun, and eyes that squint against the shuddering wind.

"Gentlemen." Iroh threads a securing arm through Katara's and brings her forward a bit. "I would like to formally introduce you to my daughter, Lady Katara of the Southern Water Tribe."

They've already received the news, but all the same, their faces pale with shock and a sort of dislike. They eye Katara like she's some exotic insect—a curiosity, but a vaguely disgusting one. She bristles under those looks, and her spine goes straight as a pole. She tilts her chin and imitates Prince Zuko's haughty stance, injecting as much disdain and pride into her eyes as she can.

The sea of expressions before her shift. She sees surprise on some, the buds of interest on others.

"Pleased to meet you." Katara pushes as much cool collection into her voice as she can. She doesn't know how to act like a noble's daughter, but she can make a feeble stab at it. Her bottom lip trembles before she presses her mouth into a thin line. She not-so-discreetly chews on the inside of her cheek, and copper blooms on her tongue. The snippy breeze cuts through her locks of hair, throws it around her face.

"You will show my daughter the same respect as you would Prince Zuko and me," Iroh continues. "Any breach in protocol will be duly punished." There is a steel core of warning in the general's otherwise affable voice. Katara quakes and wonders just what _breach in protocol_ entails.

"If I am not around, Prince Zuko will be there to make sure that you are all on your best behavior." General Iroh beams now and pats Katara's limp hand.

"I never signed on to be her babysitter!" Zuko shoots from the other end of the deck. His ponytail practically bristles with the force of his indignation.

"You're cousins, Prince Zuko. You should learn to be friends," Iroh says with an oblivious, impassive cheer.

"I—_agh_!" Zuko's fists spurt fire; he whirls in place and storms below deck.

"If it's any consolation," Katara calls after him through cupped hands, "I'm not exactly looking forward to being buddies, either."

This elicits a few chuckles from the gathered soldiers, and one or two shoot her half-admiring looks.

Katara purses her lips and wonders if her way into the crew's hearts is rooted in ruffling Prince Zuko's feathers as much as possible.

She can do that.

* * *

He has to give up his room so she has somewhere to sleep.

He has. To give up his room. Let a peasant sleep in his bed. He has to share a room with his uncle (who _snores_ and sleeps in the nude) so a peasant has somewhere to stay.

He wants to light this entire ship on fire.

"Why can't we just tie her to the mast overnight?" Zuko had suggested to his uncle, voice spiteful.

Iroh shot him a droll look. "I doubt that your cousin will appreciate that."

Every time she's addressed as his cousin, Zuko wants to spit fire.

He props his shoulders against _his_ open door and scowls at her back as she braids her mass of hair into neat plait. She's shed the parka yet again, and she looks frail in those faded robes. She tilts her head around and eyes him with clear dislike.

Her face looks younger, rounder, with her hair caught back in a braid. She's caught two locks of hair back in a ridiculous-looking style—little _loops_ on each side of her face.

She really _is_ nothing more than a child.

"What do you want?" Katara sighs, bottom lip jutting out. She's set her grubby pack on his mattress. It stands out; a brown, shapeless blob against a rich red background. Its very presence soils the sheets.

_I'll have to burn them later_, he thinks. Just thinking about it, his palms heat up.

"Are you just going to stand there scowling at me? Aren't your legs beginning to hurt?" She folds her arms over her chest and notches up her chin.

Zuko arches his good brow and paces into the cabin. He folds his legs and takes a graceful seat across from her.

"That wasn't an invitation," Katara grumbles, shooting her eyes up to the ceiling.

"Uncle told me to watch you while he's not around. Though Agni knows I have better things to do than babysit a child."

"I'm fifteen! I told your uncle—my father as much earlier. Weren't you listening?" she barks, squirming up into a straighter posture. "How old are _you_?"

He's caught surprised enough by the question that he answers her without a fight. "Seventeen."

"See! You're a child, too."

His lips flatten. "No."

"Seventeen isn't that old," she insists, cocking her head, and a stray loop of hair swings over her eye.

"Adulthood isn't determined by years. It's determined by how heavy those years have been."

"If that's true, then I'm ancient." She clasps her hands in her lap and squirms around again. Agni, do all Water peasants move around constantly like fish on the hook?

Zuko squints at her. Well, a peasant's life on an Agni-forsaken hunk of ice can hardly be easy, but there is no way her suffering can compare to the things he's seen. Silence settles between them, thick and stifling as a damp blanket. He flexes his fingers and considers leaving. Surely no member of his crew would have the gall to try anything…

A stone nestled in the hollow of her throat catches his eye, standing out pale against the backdrop of her dark skin.

He flicks his fingers against the pendant, blunt nails making a _ticking_ sound against the stone.

"Where did this come from? I didn't know that peasants could afford jewelry.

"Not all jewelry has to be paid for." Spoiled brat. "Some people _work hard_ to _make_ things."

Zuko rolls his eyes as if to say, _Yes, sure, whatever you say, you common spawn._

"Go away," she huffs after another five seconds of heavy silence. "You can stop loitering and do something...something productive!" Not that bratty princes would be familiar with such things, she reflects snidely.

"This is _my_ ship and I'll _loiter_ where I please." Steam hisses from his nostrils.

She glowers at him. He drops his gaze and sees her fingers work violently in her lap. Is she resisting the urge to slap him?

_Oh. Just try me, little girl_.

Zuko shoves to his feet in a great liquid movement and paces out of the room, shooting over his shoulder, "Don't soil my bed tonight, girl."

"Oh, what do you think I'm going to do? _Pee_ in it?"

Zuko's throat strains on a scream. He unleashes a spurt of flame on the wall opposite, just barely missing a passing subordinate.

As the man scampers off (likely as not to change his pants) Zuko tips his forehead against the wall and breathes deep, chest heaving under his breastplate.

The trip home is going to be a very, very long one.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts, feedback, advice? Tell me what you think in the reviews if you'd like, my dears. In the following chapter, we'll have even more interaction between Zuko and Katara (read: bickering) and shout-out to the episode "The Fortune Teller".

x, Song


	4. Various Discomforts

A/N: Oh look an update! -throws confetti- Well, uh, this is the longest chapter so far, and one I'm a tad uncertain of. I went through and edited it myself, but if you catch any mistakes, feel free to point them out! And, as always, please review. I love feedback more than anything, and I use it to improve the story.

Speaking of-thank you all so so so much for last chapter's insightful reviews! I appreciate it more than I can properly express. I'm glad the story is retaining your interest-and I'm glad I appear to be keeping everyone in character. Seriously, you're all perfect, and if I could hug you and give you cookies (or just give you cookies if you're not into the hugging thing) I definitely would.

So, more shenanigans ensue in this chapter, and we see a shout-out to "The Fortune Teller". In the following chapter, our heroes finally land in the Fire Nation, and Katara finally grasps the enormity of her rash scheme.

And, with that, on with the show!

* * *

_Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered._

-William Shakespeare

* * *

Every night, before Katara falls into an agitated sleep on this too-cushy mattress, she lays out her comb and Sokka's dagger. They stand out painfully white on a background of vermillion. Bone against a sea of blood.

She took the comb because it reminds her of her mother. She keeps the dagger because she doesn't trust anyone on this ship, not even the affable General Iroh. She looks at them every night to remind herself of where she's come from.

She fears that she'll forget that. Because everything is black and red here, except for the expanse of the ever-shifting ocean. Everything is dark and sharp and forged with metal. It _stinks _in here, of sweat and burning oil.

Katara decides that the lower planes of the Spirit World must look like this ship—cramped and loud and black and_ reeking_.

Katara presses two fingers to each eye and pushes down, hard, to hold back the stream of tears that threaten. She won't cry, she won't, she will _not_. It is too late for tears, for regrets, for anything but the determination that has fueled her for years, has kept her going the way fire and oil keeps this ship moving.

Her fingers fall to trace over the comb's teeth, moving over weathered bone, skittering across miniscule cracks. It is a plain little thing, nothing as luxurious as her new "family" is surely used to. But her father carved it for her mother as a wedding gift, and Katara has more than a little bit of sentimental attachment to the thing.

She draws her knees up to her chin and turns her attention to the dagger. It is a long, thin thing, white as snow and plain as the comb at its side. But she knows that it holds nearly as much meaning to Sokka as his boomerang. The fact that he's given it to her (though he may never see her again) means a lot.

"I love you," she mumbles, clasping the dagger to her chest, not sure if she's speaking to Sokka, or her mother, or her father. Maybe all three.

All three are lost to her. She'll see one of them again, if she has anything to say about it.

And she'll make up for the fact that she'll never see the other two, not _ever again_, no matter what she does.

_Maybe in the Spirit World_…Katara thinks, pressing the dagger tighter between her breasts. It dents the fabric of her robes, slides over her heartbeat. But no. Now is not the time to think of that.

Not yet, no, not yet.

A tinny echo rings throughout the cabin. Katara scrambles to slide the dagger away, nudging it down into her sarashi, between her breasts. Sokka was right; no one has dared to search her, not with General Iroh around. That might change, but for now, her breast bindings are the safest place to keep the weapon.

"Y-yes?" she pipes up, twisting in place and crossing her legs on the mattress. She plucks up the comb and starts to work it through her loose hair, taking her tongue between her teeth and struggling to look preoccupied.

"Good evening, Lady Katara." It's one of the soldiers, a higher ranked man called Jee. Lieutenant Jee, she thinks—she tries very hard to memorize ranks—a man with a grizzled hair and a stern countenance. But he doesn't seem to be unkind.

"…Evening." Katara clamps her legs tighter together and shifts in place. The dagger bores into the thin skin between her breasts, but she's almost used to it by now. She wonders, as she often does, if its outline can be seen. She would wear her parka more, but it's barely tolerable even above deck, this boat is so hot.

An awkward silence settles between Katara and the Lieutenant. Katara squints at a tapestry that hangs beside the door, tracing the fire emblem with her eyes. She wants to tear it to little bits and throw the remains over the side of the boat.

She stems the impulse and returns her reluctant attention to Lieutenant Jee. "Do you, ah, need anything?" _Please don't need anything_, is the unspoken addendum. Much as this place stifles her, as itchy with impatience and cabin fever as she's been over the past two and a half days, Katara wants to stay inside this square little space and not return to the surface until they land in the Fire Nation.

"Your father sent me," Lieutenant Jee says in a measured sort of voice. "He wants you to attend music night."

Katara's mouth works soundlessly. The comb pauses in its relentless yanks. "He wants to invite me to…what, exactly?"

Jee clasps his hands above his belt buckle and visibly forces a solemn expression onto his craggy face. "Music night, my lady. It's a weekly sort of occurrence aboard this vessel."

Katara sets the comb aside and braids her fingers together, pursing her lips as her mind swirls around. What sort of scheme is this? She can't picture any of these soldiers taking part in something as mundane and—and _silly_ sounding as a "music night" (whatever that entails).

"And Gen—my father…wants me to attend this? May I ask why?" She curls the words off her tongue with care, hoping she can somehow imitate a noble's mincing voice. She has never spent time around nobles before now, so she is merely shooting in the dark.

"He believes that you need to spend more time above deck, interacting with your…people." Jee folds his upper lip down. "He's also worried for you, spending all your time in this room. He fears that you're adjusting poorly."

Understatement of the month, that one. "I'm 'adjusting' quite well, all things considering." Katara tilts her chin and spears Jee with a look that the older man finds reminiscent of her supposed cousin's.

Maybe there _is_ a family resemblance of sorts, after all.

"Be that as it may, your father insists." Jee pushes back his shoulders and returns the sharp look. She's a steely one, he'll give her that, but he isn't about to be pushed around by a child.

He gets enough of that from the Crown Prince.

Katara feels something gurgle low in her throat. It might be a curse, or a plea to not make her do this. Whatever it is, she stifles it and pushes her bare feet onto the floor. "Give me a moment, please," she says curtly, working her hair back into its braid with efficient movements of her hands.

"Of course, my lady." Jee tilts his head and returns to the raucous activities above deck. "I'll send an escort back for you," he calls, though he isn't sure if she hears, or cares.

* * *

"This isn't what I had in mind when the Lieutenant told me he'd be sending an _escort _back."

"Do I look like I'm jumping for joy?" Zuko spits, jerking at his sleeveless tunic and fiddling with the frog fasteners. His arms are sinewy and pale in the dim of the hallway. He looks much older than seventeen. His eyes snap with irritation and the potential for violence.

Katara contemplates scrambling into her borrowed room and barring the door behind her.

He would probably just break down the door.

Katara sucks in her cheeks and meets Zuko's eyes, challenging.

"I don't want to go up there."

"Do you think _I_ want to go? Do you think I want to go with _you_?"

"Then let me stay here." She jabs a finger at the cabin—at _his_ cabin. She still shudders every so often when she recalls that _he_ has slept on that mattress. "And—and go about your business."

"Uncle will give me a hard time if I don't. And he doesn't want you alone on this ship with drunks wandering about."

"_D-drunks_?" Katara's mouth pops open, and she jumps in place a little, toes curling.

Zuko notches his chin down on a curt nod. "Tonight is the only one they have off. They take advantage of that."

Katara presses her fingertips together and squishes the pads tight. Go with Prince Zuko and enjoy his dubious company. Stay here and risk a drunk stumbling into her room while she sleeps—or worse, while she's changing into her sleep clothes.

"O—okay." Katara nods once and stumbles forward a few steps, working her fingers against her swaying robes and deliberately avoiding eye contact. She will take time with Zuko over being harassed (or worse) by drunks, but she doesn't have to enjoy it, or speak to him.

She focuses on the breadth of his shoulders as he leads her above deck. He really, really looks older than seventeen. He could pass for twenty, if he wanted to.

As for her? Her frame is still narrow, her face lined with baby fat. She suspects, strongly, that she truly looks the child Prince Zuko accused her of being. The thought sticks in her craw, makes her want to spit on him.

She senses that would not be the wisest course of action, so she folds down her lips, sucks in her cheeks, and clomps after the bratty prince.

A cacophony of noise and smells and blurs of movement greets her. She nearly stumbles back down the stairs, and only Zuko's rough hand on her forearm keeps her skull from meeting metal. Her eyes flicker up to meet his, dazedly. He snorts steam at her and, using his grip on her arm, steers her forward, nearly _shoving_ her onto the deck.

"Watch it, would you?"

Katara's throat tightens with the desire to shriek at him. Not that he would hear her all that well, considering the raucous activity on deck. It rings in her ears and corks up her senses. There aren't that many men aboard this boat, really, so how do they manage to make so much noise? Katara crinkles her nose—but then her mouth pops open.

"Wait—who's steering this thing, if everyone's up here?"

Prince Zuko folds his arms over his chest, scratching a bicep with blunt-nailed fingers. "Not everyone. A few men stay sober and on duty, enough to keep the ship going." Firelight glances off his yellow eyes, turns them to molten gold. The net of shadows and light throws his scar into higher relief and makes him look like a demon.

"Oh…I see."

Zuko grunts and paces farther down the deck. Reluctantly, Katara sticks close to him, fingers snaking out to take hold of his tunic. He stiffens and pulls his back in, as if to avoid her touch, but he doesn't smack her away. Her shoulders round a little under the open stares of the crew.

"What are they staring at…?" The question is rhetorical, something she poses to herself. She _knows_ what (who) they're staring at: the latest addition to their ship, an unwelcome little invasion wrapped in blue.

Zuko doesn't say anything, and she supposes that's for the best. For all her earlier vows to annoy the hell out of him, she'd rather keep their verbal interaction (and general interaction) to a minimum.

Makeshift tables and chairs have been set up all over the deck, crates that smell of gunpowder and tea leaves, with scraps of red cloth folded over them to serve as flimsy cushions. General Iroh squats on one of those crates, his broad palms braced on his knees. An instrument Katara doesn't recognize rests on his lap. His brownish yellow eyes are lit up as he speaks jovially with one of the crew members.

"Here she is, Uncle." When Zuko speaks to Iroh, his tone is respectful, but Katara can hear an underlying strain of resentfulness. _Here she is, Uncle. Here's the lying little brat, the pretender_.

Katara wonders if she can convince Prince Zuko, in one way or another, to believe her lies. Not because she particularly wants his trust or respect (he can take those things and shove them up his asshole) but because she fears that he will rat her out. And then she will be killed before she has the chance _to_ kill.

"Ah, daughter." Iroh gestures for Katara to sit. The crate he points to is a little bit smaller and flimsier-looking than his, and the piece of cloth folded across it looks plusher than the others. The dark red of it is almost black in the moonlight.

Katara perches on the very edge of the crate and stares across the deck, at the water that's been painted black and silver by the night. Torchlight casts blobs of orange onto the ocean, and they float like vibrant ghosts on the waves.

Zuko is still standing there, glaring back and forth between Iroh and Katara. His good eye narrows to match his scarred one. The squinty look doesn't flatter his already ruined features, and Katara finds herself wondering all over again—how did that happen to him? A training accident, she would presume, but how horrifically off-aim had the other person been to create such a mess? Were they killed for disfiguring a prince?

Or did Zuko do this to himself?

It matters little to her. She'll think too hard about any subject, no matter how trivial, if only to focus her whirlwind of thoughts.

"Sit, sit, nephew." Any sternness she saw in Iroh before has melted away—has been melting away for the past few days, in great doses. Perhaps he wears this jovial attitude as a mask? Or was the stern (if kind) man from before the mask? Which seamless persona is the shield?

More riddles she will likely never unravel.

"I'll stand. Thanks." Zuko's arms are still folded across his chest; his hands are tucked into his armpits. His mouth tugs down, and if he squints any harder, his face will freeze that way.

Katara checks a giggle and cups her hands around the teapot that rests on the big crate that serves as a table. She nearly scalds herself on the porcelain and snatches her hands away, tucking them under her thighs. The crate's slats are cool, if grainy, and soothe the heat away.

Her Gran-Gran always used to scold her brother in that way—_Don't frown so much, Sokka; your face will freeze like that_. Granted, Gran-Gran scowled often enough herself. But the silly threat never worked on Sokka (or Katara) in any case.

Her chest is warm from the memory, and it emboldens her. She wonders if this is what it feels like to swallow a mouthful of wine. "Prince Zuko, that pole up your butt is extremely unattractive."

Iroh inhales a stream of tea and begins to cough. A nearby soldier jumps in place and nearly sets his companion on fire. A wave of silence shudders over the crew. Katara can hear someone inhale twenty feet down the deck.

Zuko's good eye widens. His pale mouth works silently. Katara sits very still and wonders at the strength of the fuse she has just lit. Steam pours from the boy's nostrils.

"_You_—"

"Nephew! Have you taken your medicine today? You know; the _special juice_ that _loosens things up_ for you?" Iroh pushes to his feet in one of those too-fluid motions; he latches onto his nephew. His wide face splits on a smile, and his voice takes on that delicate tone one reserves for _sensitive subjects_. Like the death of a relative or sex or—

Constipation. Katara purses her lips and holds her breath so she doesn't giggle.

"Uncle!" Even in the uncertain lighting, Katara can see red bloom across Zuko's face. His good eye twitches. He looks like he might run away, or vomit over the side of the ship. Katara has pressed her hands to her stomach to hold in her laughter. She isn't sure if Iroh is telling the truth, or if he's just desperate to prevent a fight.

Either way, she can't recall the last time she wanted to laugh so hard, or at all.

The crew watches Iroh grapple the livid Zuko away, down below deck. There is a long period of complete silence.

And then—a great _whoosh_. Katara sees orange shadows lap their way up the flight of stairs, before they die down as soon as they appeared.

She wonders—if Iroh hadn't gotten Zuko away, would the prince have unleashed that fury on _her_? Very abruptly, she no longer feels like laughing. She snatches up a teacup and sips. The tea goes sour in her stomach, churns around like a tiny whirlpool.

"You all right there, my lady?" One of the younger crewmembers stoops down to look her in the eye. Beneath his helmet, his face is young and round and earnest. Katara can't quite bring herself to hate him on sight. Maybe she's tired, or maybe the lingering fear has cooled her perpetual anger rather than fueled it. In any case, she even goes so far as to shoot the young soldier a half-hearted smile.

"I'm, uh, fine." Hearing someone address her as _my lady_ will always be weird, she decides. "Uh…?" Her brow puckers; she makes a vague gesture with her teacup.

"Oh! Forgive me. I'm Aoi, my lady." The young man presses his fist to the flat of his other palm and notches his head down on that bow that Katara is becoming accustomed to. She never quite knows how to react—she isn't one of _them_, and she feels odd for mimicking their gestures. But, won't she have to become used to bowing in such a way if she's to blend in?

So, at a loss, she just bobs her head awkwardly.

"You'll have to forgive His Highness." Aoi takes an uninvited seat on the edge of the big crate and crosses his booted feet at the ankles. "He's a decent kid, under all the scowling and such."

Aoi can't be any older than twenty, Katara decides. She pegs him for eighteen or nineteen. He doesn't have any business calling Prince Zuko a _kid_ when his own face is still rounded with layers of baby fat.

Katara's shoulders round on a shrug. "I'm not inclined to calling any of you people dec—" Oh. Well. She snaps her mouth shut, deciding that showing open resentment towards the society she wants to integrate herself into might not be the best of ideas.

A horn sounds in the distant, notes straining through the night air. More instruments join the tangle of noise, starting up an enthusiastic beat. Crew members clap along in time to the music; others are so bold as to shove to their feet and pull their shipmates into a dance. Katara purses her lips and watches the men, young and old, dance with the abandon of young children.

She wonders how strong the alcohol is.

"Lady—Katara, yes?"

Katara's brow wrinkles; why won't Aoi go away? She would think that her stiff posture and distant expression is enough to communicate her reluctance to interact with anyone on this deck.

Where is General Iroh, or even Zuko, when she needs them? Still bickering below deck?

"Yes?" The word drags from her mouth, screams her reluctance to speak to Aoi. She tilts her head, just barely meeting the soldier's huge, earnest eyes.

Aoi clears his throat, taps his fist against his mouth.

"How has your, uh, stay been?" Aoi asks her, turning in place. His knee bumps her side. She expects an apology, but doesn't get one.

Katara's brows climb her forehead. "As expected, I guess. I'm what amounts to a foreigner on a ship that belongs to people who always treated me as their enemy." The honest words spill over her lips. It's like a catharsis, to tell the truth (or mostly the truth).

"We don't treat you as our enemies!" Aoi fumbles out the words, goes red under his sunbaked skin. "Merely as…"

"Animals to be conquered?" Katara tries again, her words toxic little darts. Oh, she can't quite mask that resentment, can she?

"No, of course not!" Aoi pushes his hands into the air, like he can catch his words and stuff them back down his throat. But he doesn't offer anything else, doesn't try to defend his people further. Because he feels like he's in the wrong?

Or because he knows Katara is right, and doesn't care that she is?

Katara shakes her head, braid bobbing around her face, and makes to stand. But Aoi's fingers catch hers and coax her back to her seat. That doesn't really bother her, beyond the jolt that goes along with unexpected human contact.

The fact that he continues to hold her hand even after she sits down—that bothers her quite a bit.

She focuses on the dagger that rests cool and sharp between her breasts.

"Hey, it's music night. We should all lighten up, yeah?" Aoi's smile is tentative, but toothy. "Would your ladyship be so kind as to dance with me?"

Katara doesn't know what to do—other than run away. She tugs her fingers from his. He only laces his hand tighter to hers.

She could bend steaming hot tea into his face; let it splash down into the crooks in his armor. She bobs her foot and bites back the instinct. She's too panicky to focus well enough for that—and she's still uncertain about giving away her bending.

She could use the dagger—but she's not quite ready to give away its existence. And she doesn't want to stab anyone, not yet.

The waves churn harder against the ship's hull.

"I'd rather not, thank you," Katara says, voice low. She digs her nails into the back of his hand. She smells alcohol on his breath for the first time, mingling with tea fumes.

The ship rocks. People stumble. No one looks her way.

Katara breathes, breathes, _breathes_.

When she exhales, her breath is cold as the arctic ice back home, and it pushes into Aoi's face. He yelps, wiggles his hand away from her, and looks around as if he can't quite name the source of the ice that trickled over his face.

Katara thanks La for the man's tipsy state. He's too close to drunkenness to think too hard, or too logically, about what just happened.

Katara jumps to her feet and scampers through the mass of armored bodies, and she doesn't stop until she passes a muttering Zuko and Iroh, reaches her stolen cabin, and locks the door behind her.

* * *

She wakes up with an ache in her head and a sour fuzz on her tongue.

Katara rolls in place, fights back a betraying cramp in her abdomen. Oh, no. Not that, not now. The last thing she needs is to bleed aboard this damn ship.

But…they'll be travelling for weeks, won't they? Katara has not bothered to calculate the exact amount of time because she isn't familiar with such matters. She should ask, she supposes.

Katara rolls again, splaying out on her back, and shuts her eyes. She feels that rocking motion of the ship. She's starting to become accustomed to the constant movement, to the point where she barely notices it unless she concentrates. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, like a baby in its mother's arms…

Her abdomen twinges again, and Katara abruptly curls up on her side, drawing her knees to her chest. She squeezes her thighs tight to her torso on a bid to stave off the pain. Her monthly cycle is never easy on her, at least not on the first day.

_ Please don't, please don't, please don't_…

Heat trickles down the inside of her thigh.

_Spirits above and below take it and cast it back a thousand times over._

Her head is still sore from those brief, horrendous moments of fear she felt last night. First, from the look in Prince Zuko's eyes. Second (and far worse) the look in Aoi's eyes. She's seen men in her tribe shoot women that look. Katara never thought she would be on the receiving end of one of those, and now that she has, she decides that she doesn't like it. She doesn't like it at all.

And now, on top of her aching head, she must have an aching womb and the spurts of blood to go along with it. On a ship full of men, and no women to care for or empathize with her.

She doesn't need to be taken care of, as she's proven to herself time and time again, but bleeding out from one's nether regions on a ship full of (potentially) hostile men is not an ideal scenario.

Katara rolls onto her stomach, kicks the mattress below her, and pushes up onto her elbows, grimacing all the while. She feels the blankets go sticky beneath her. So much for not soiling His Highness's royal mattress. She peeks down, sees red bloom.

She gets a sick sort of satisfaction from this.

But now the insides of her thighs are stained with blood and other things, and she has to clean it off before she feels even remotely comfortable. So she slithers out of the bed, cursing softly, and tiptoes over to the door. She peeks into the hallway, cocks her head left and right, sees nothing. She darts back into the cabin and digs a fresh set of sarashi and a robe from her bag. The cramped little room where they keep a wooden bathtub is close to her cabin. It won't take long, she thinks.

The ship is quiet with inactivity as Katara creeps the short distance between her cabin and the bathing room. She curls her fingers over the metal handle, tugs softly—

And nearly swallows her tongue.

Katara shrieks and slams the door shut, bracing her shoulders against it like that can hold in the wrath that is likely as not about to rain down on her head.

Because…because…that tub was full of a very naked Firebender. A naked Firebender who looked as if he were in the middle of standing, knees crooked, arms braced. His abs rippled; his shoulders looked even wider without his armor, though she would think the opposite true. And his—

_His_—

Katara squeezes her eyes shut and crawls back to her stolen cabin. Bleeding and stained clothes be damned, she is not going to come out of this room for a very, very long time.

* * *

"Daughter, whatever are you doing in there?"

"I'm enjoying my solitude!"

In truth, she is recovering from this morning's fiasco. Every time she thinks back to it, she feels a bout of nausea twist through her innards, and a flush of humiliation rushes to her face. She snuck out long enough to wash off the blood and change her bindings (taking care that the washroom was _not_ occupied this time around), but she has not been out of the cabin since.

"We are about to make a stop in a port town. I thought you would appreciate stretching your legs and savoring a little time on dry land."

_Dry land_. No more incessant rocking. No more creeping claustrophobia.

Katara lifts her face from the pillow (it no longer smells of smoke and musk), keeping her arms hooked around it like it will anchor her in this tide of humiliation and conflicting desires. She wants to take a walk on dry land—she wants to lock herself in this cabin and never emerge, not until the word ends.

The possibility of finding some herbs to put in her tea, herbs that will soothe her aching womb, is what decides her.

And the thought of breathing fresh land air—that decides her too.

So she rolls to her feet, her eagerness trapped in a cloud of protective apathy, and marches up onto the deck, down the gangplank, and onto dry land.

It's weird, standing on a surface that isn't constantly _moving_. Weird and foreign even as it's familiar and welcome. Katara twists her fingers into her robes, tugging and plucking. She marvels at her surroundings—at the _trees_, at the grass untouched by snow or frost, at the clumps and mazes of stalls that overflow with thick fabrics and dusty baubles and fake jewels. She inhales and smells something sweet and rich enough to have her tongue watering.

Katara scuffs her feet and studiously avoids meeting Prince Zuko's eyes. Whenever she glances his way, she swears she sees red creep up the back of his pale neck. She flushes, too, not because she _liked_ what she saw back there, but because what's more humiliating than stumbling in on the boy you hate while he's buck-naked?

That isn't to say he doesn't have a nice body under that armor, because he _does_—

Nope, stopping right there. Katara breathes, lifts her hands to her breastbone, and focuses on the foreign environment around her. It's warm, but not the stifling kind of heat that's found aboard the Fire Nation's vessel. She smells crisp plants, sees colors she's only heard about sprung to vibrant life.

Will the Fire Nation look like this? Katara wonders, trailing behind Iroh and Zuko. Soldiers walk in tight lines on either side of the royals. The townsfolk, draped in earthy tones and rough fabrics, cast her confused looks and shoot her companions wary glares.

"It's—it's amazing here," Katara blurts, head swiveling around as they walk.

Zuko snorts but says nothing.

"It's but a humble village compared to the great cities of the Fire Nation, my lady," a nameless soldier says, in a conspiring sort of way. "When we land in Caldera City, you'll be surprised that you ever thought of this peasant's town as anything but mundane."

Katara decides that was rather rude of him to say, in such a loud voice, when any of the townsfolk can hear him. She rounds her shoulders up till they brush her earlobes and tracks the movement of her feet over the packed dirt pathways.

Vendors are shouting, hawking wares, declaring sales and jabbing their fingers at shiny instruments and not-so-shiny jewelry.

Iroh has stopped by a stand piled with various instruments, and he's pointing at a twisty brass thing that the salesman calls a "tsungi horn".

"Uncle. Why do you want a tsungi horn?" Zuko's voice, oddly enough, is not irritable. Just curious.

"For music nights, of course! Wouldn't it just be a delightful addition—ah, why are you two kids loitering around here when you could be exploring on your own? Zuko, show your cousin around the market and buy her anything she wants."

Katara and Zuko hiss in unison and snap their eyes at Iroh. Zuko's fingers flex at his sides; Katara's hands fly up to yank at her hair loopies.

Iroh arches a grizzled brow. "Is there something wrong, children?"

"No!" the two teenagers bark at once. One of the soldiers eyes them with suspicion. Another coughs to cover up what Katara suspects is a snicker.

"Hm. If you say so. Go on, now." Iroh lifts his hand to the side of his mouth and stage whispers, "This man is being quite stubborn. I might be haggling for some time."

The merchant coughs, loudly.

Katara sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and contemplates throwing a fit.

From the look on his face, Zuko is going through the very same thought process.

Ten minutes later, they're walking down a row of stalls in reluctant tandem, keeping more than the necessary amount of space between their bodies. Two soldiers trail behind them, careful to keep their distance, but close enough that, should they be needed, they can reach the royals in a short amount of time.

"Are you going to buy something or not?" Zuko eventually huffs, crossing his arms and tucking his hands close to his sides. He noticeably doesn't look at her as he speaks.

Well, he rarely looks her in the eye in any case, but this time she's quite certain it has less to do with disdain and more to do with lingering embarrassment.

"I'm looking," Katara says, carefully, picking her way over to a stand that sits at the very edge of its row. It is noticeably free of clutter, and draped in rich purple fabrics. It is also empty. Katara stands on her toes, pokes her face in, squints. There's a curtain in the back that looks like it may lead somewhere—ah, yes. It slices the booth in half. There must be something behind it—

"Hey, what do you think you're doing—" Zuko comes up beside her, hand hovering over her back like he's contemplating grabbing her by her robes and yanking her back before she can tip over the booth's counter.

"Ah, welcome, welcome." Katara gapes at the portly older woman who slices the curtain aside and walks into view with all the fluid grace and nobility of a royal. Her fingers are encrusted with fat rings, and her iron-colored hair is caught up in fat, elaborate bun. She juggles what look like human _finger_ bones in her hands.

"Uh?" is all Katara can manage. Zuko is likewise rendered speechless.

"You came to have your fortunes told, yes?" the woman asks them, rattling the bones around before letting them clunk down to the counter. Katara pulls a face and inches away. "I often do couple readings." She shoots them a calculating look. "You both look a bit young for it, but are you here for advice on how to spice up your lives in the bedroom?"

It takes Katara a very long minute to understand—and when she does, the sound that comes out of her mouth isn't human. It's a low, gurgling screech. At her side, Zuko stiffens and coughs fire.

Really, Katara's too appalled to even appreciate the irony of the woman's suggestion in light of this morning's…events.

"She's my _cousin_!" Zuko barks even as Katara yelps, "That's disgusting!"

"Cousin, eh?" The woman taps her fingers on the counter. Her long nails, reminiscent of talons, make staccato _ticking_ sounds. "It isn't unheard of for cousins to marry, my dears. In any case, I don't see much of a family resemblance."

"_Half_ cousins," Zuko mutters.

It occurs to Katara, belatedly, that he just called her his _cousin_.

"Wait—you tell fortunes?" Katara asks, more skeptical than curious.

"Of course I do, silly girl. Why else would I have these?" She taps the bones, and Katara's upper lip curls with disgust.

The Waterbender shrugs. "How should I know? I don't even know what those are."

"I come from a small village in the mountains. The townsfolk there rely on my services to go about their daily lives."

"Then why are you here?" Zuko asks, voice unfriendly. He folds his arms again and tips his upper body forward, glaring into the woman's eyes.

The fortune teller shrugs with an elegant twitch of her shoulders and clasps her hands. "I had business on the coast. A rock slide has blocked off the paths to my village, and it has yet to be cleared. I can't simply starve for lack of money in the meantime."

The explanation is pragmatic enough. But, oddly, Katara's spine starts to prickle with what feels frighteningly close to déjà vu.

"Let's go, Katara."

Katara jumps in place—another anomaly. He's calling her by name. It sounds foreign, spoken in his husky, accented voice. Foreign and not entirely unwelcome.

Breathe, breathe, _breathe_.

"No," she says, petulant. "I want my fortune read."

Zuko rolls his eyes over to hers, and his mouth lifts with disdain. "I'm not paying for—"

"First reading is free of charge," the woman butts in. "I'm Madame Wu—you may call me Auntie."

Zuko scoffs and twists his head around, glaring into the distance. His fingers flex on his biceps.

"Katara, was it? Come this way, Katara." Madame Wu lifts a flap in the counter and gestures Katara into the booth, towards a low stool. The Waterbender perches on the rickety seat and lets her eyes adjust to the sudden dim.

"Give me your hand, child."

"You're not—going to make me touch the bones or something, are you?" Disgust drags its way through Katara's voice.

"No, no, nothing of the sort." Madame Wu snaps her fingers. "Give it here."

Katara does as she's told, resting her hand in the cups of Madame Wu's palms. The fortune teller turns it over and stares at the brown skin for a moment.

Wu passes her fingers over the web of Katara's palm, her nails tickling over shallow crevices and subtle bumps.

"I see a great amount of difficulty in your future, young woman," the self-stylized fortuneteller drawls, fingers flexing as she speaks. "The path ahead of you is dark, and it twists like a river."

_I don't need a fortuneteller to tell me my future is dark_, Katara thinks, hand twitching in Wu's grip. _I've known that for quite some time. _

Where is General Iroh when she needs him? Perusing that stand of instruments, no doubt. Katara cranes her neck around, meets Zuko's seething gaze. If she's losing patience, then the scarred prince has already lost his.

Not that he had a generous amount of it to begin with.

Katara twists back around, studies Aunt Wu's round, heavily made-up face. Is the makeup part of the act, another means of distracting her customers from the mundane behind her tricks?

"There is much darkness—I would do my best to avoid tea, if I were you."

Katara audibly snorts. That will be difficult, taking into account her false father's weakness for the stuff.

"Don't you want to know if you'll marry or not? Most girls your age ask me that."

"I don't care," Katara says flatly. "I'm not marrying anyone."

"Hmmm. Your palm says otherwise. It says here that you will marry a very powerful bender, and that you'll live a love story the likes of which hasn't been seen since Oma and Shu."

Wind whispers through the booth, and the fine hairs on the back of Katara's neck lift.

"Who…?" Katara's voice trails up on a question.

"Oma and Shu. The Earth Kingdom's most famous lovers. The first Earthbenders, who dug a path through a treacherous mountain range to meet in spite of their families' disapproval."

"The city of Omashu is named after them," Zuko cuts in, tapping out an impatient rhythm with his foot. "Are you quite finished?"

"No, young man, not quite." Wu sounds more amused than offended. "Patience will do your future good, Prince."

Katara shivers in earnest, because she cannot recall Zuko introducing himself as the Prince of the Fire Nation.

Maybe his reputation—a scowling teenager with an ugly burn scar—has proceeded him? Yes, of course that's it.

Zuko folds his lips into a hard line and steams in silence.

"Your love is closer than you think, Katara." Madame Wu folds Katara's fingers against the web of her callused palm. "Close, and perhaps unwelcome. Your love will spring from the foundations of distrust, and it will grow under the nurturing shower of unexpected camaraderie. Few experience the passion that exists in your future. Savor it, and do not allow it to destroy you. Treachery waits at every turn for you, Katara. I pity you, even as I envy you."

"A—are you done?" Katara barks, tugging her hand away and cradling it between her breasts. Like that will protect her from anymore unwanted fortunes.

The creases around Wu's eyes deepen. "There is much more to tell, but I think we'll end it here—save for one more thing: be careful of the knife, Katara. Daggers can turn on their wielders just as easily as they spear their enemies."

Katara shivers again, and feels it in her marrow.

"That's _it_!" Zuko shoves his way into the booth, all bristling teeth and jagged armor, and grabs Katara by the upper arm. "This was a waste of time. Let's get a move on before Uncle experiences one of his moments and leaves us here by mistake."

"But—"

"Shut _up_, Katara."

Wind rattles loose flyers, whispers through Zuko's hair.

"I'd be mindful of how you treat that girl, my Prince," Wu calls. Irony threads through her voice—irony and what Katara thinks might be sympathetic dread. "She'll hold your heart in the cup of her hands soon enough."

Zuko doesn't appear to hear the old woman. Katara's brow crumples as she struggles to unravel the meaning of Wu's warning.

When they arrive at the ship, Iroh is waiting at the end of the gangplank; the complicated-looking horn from earlier is braced on his wide hip. He shoots them both concerned looks before ushering them aboard.

Katara has forgotten to pick up herbs for the now inconsequential pain in her womb. She's even forgotten (almost) the sight of a very naked Zuko.

Wu's fortunes sit heavy in her stomach.

Her dreams are murky as pond water. Zuko doesn't call her by name again.

A fortnight later, they land in the Fire Nation.

* * *

A/N: Since this was the longest and most grueling chapter to write, I'd love love love to hear your feedback :) And, in any case, your time is more than appreciated.

x, Song


	5. Jarring Proximities

A/N: Hi guys! *throws confetti because update* Again, I'm not so sure how I feel about this chapter. It's about the same length as the last one.

This chapter was beta'd by a good friend of mine, known on tumblr and ffnet as Jasmine Dragon Teashop. If you haven't checked out her stuff or favorited/followed her, you should =) This chapter would be a lesser thing without her editing and input.

And with that, on with the show!

* * *

_And just fake it if you're out of direction_

_Fake it if you feel like you don't belong here _

-Seether,

"Fake It"

* * *

_Poison? Maybe that's it._

Katara taps her fingers against her chin and mulls Wu's prediction over for the hundredth time. Possibly the thousandth. She's lost track of how many times the old woman's fortunes have swirled around in her head, stumbling about like lost children in the dark. She wishes, passionately, that she could shake them free from her consciousness. But they stick like burrs in an animal's coat, and no amount of tugging will free her of them.

_Why else would I have to stay away from tea?_ Katara drops her face into her hands and sighs heavily at herself. She is not actually taking those predictions seriously—she is _not_. Katara is many things: impulsive, short-tempered, even a little naïve. But she is not a gullible fool.

So _why_ can't she shake Madame Wu's haunting words? _Why_?

Katara shifts her hands away from her face and knocks her head against the ship's railing.

"You'll hurt yourself if you keep that up, my dearest."

Katara jolts and twists in place, bracing her hands on the ship's side. She looks warily into General Iroh's eyes. Why does he call her _dearest_ and _daughter_ even when they're alone? Perhaps he's being cautious—perhaps he does not want to risk giving away their act, not even in private?

Too many questions and no answers to be had.

"I'm fine," Katara says, more out of habit than truthfulness. She was always brushing off expressions of concern back home. No matter how scraped or bloody or tired she was, Katara always lied through her teeth, always said that she was _just fine_. Brushing off concern has become as natural as breathing.

"Are you quite sure about that, daughter?" Iroh clasps his hands under the billowing sleeves of his robes and ventures closer. His face is kind—too kind for Katara's comfort. The Fire Nation is supposed to be full of cruel men with no redeeming qualities. They are not supposed to have kindly old men amongst their numbers. Kindly old men who appear to genuinely _care_ for her.

_Don't trust him. Don't trust him or anyone else._

"I just…" How much to tell? She mulls that over every time she speaks to one of these people. How much to leave out?

Oh, but it's just a silly fortune told by a charlatan in heavy makeup. What harm can it do? Besides which, for all she knows, Zuko has already spilled the details of their little adventure to his uncle.

"Yes?" Iroh lifts a grizzled brow and plods closer to Katara. He ventures forward to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. It takes everything she has not to knock him away.

"Have you ever met a fortuneteller before?" The words push out of her lips in a hasty rush, syllables blurring together.

Iroh shifts back, clasps his hands again, and eyes her carefully. "I have been all over the world, young lady. I have seen things that you would marvel and sigh at. Fortunetellers are relatively commonplace."

Katara shoots her false father a sour look. His expression only turns jovial, and he shifts closer to thread an arm through hers. She resists for a moment, but eventually slumps and allows him to walk them up and down the deck.

"Have you met many of them?" Katara queries, hooking her fingers around the crook of Iroh's elbow and watching the path of her feet. They dock occasionally, but she's become so accustomed to the black iron under her feet that she barely recognizes dry land when she sees it. In a way, this ship is like her home back in the South Pole—monochromatic, barren, and stifling in its uniformity.

"I wouldn't quite say _many_—but enough," Iroh says cryptically, tracking the movements of the waves with his eyes. "I only had my fortune read once…suffice to say the results put me off ever looking into my own future again."

Katara trembles and pushes tighter to Iroh's side in spite of her reluctance to be in close proximity with a citizen of the Fire Nation. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing up again, like they did when Wu had mumbled those cryptic phrases.

"Was it…" Katara's tongue darts out to swipe across the cracks in her dry lips. "Was it…very bad? Your fortune, I mean…" It isn't her place to pry, but she can't quite contain herself. She needs to dig past the cryptic seal on Iroh's words and decipher his meaning. Needs to compare his experience to hers and hope to all the Spirits that she hasn't been doomed by a trace of fingers and a muttered prediction.

"The fortune itself," Iroh muses, pacing them back and forth across the deck, his stumpy legs moving with unexpected grace, "was not so bad. In fact, one might say that it was exactly what I'd been hoping to hear."

"Then…what was the problem?" Katara ventures, tightening her hold on Iroh in an offer of comfort that even she doesn't understand. Much as she's trying to lump him in with the rest of his vile countrymen…she can't do it. She can't lump any of these men into a mass of evil—because they're real, individual human beings.

She can't watch them every day; see them bicker and joke with each other; hear them complain about how dry the preserved food on this ship is; listen to them gamble and play pai sho; wince whenever they complain of the dirty state of the privy—she can't do any of these things without humanizing them.

She can't think of them as complete monsters, because they _aren't_.

And that pains her.

_I still hate them. I do._

She does.

Iroh's answer breaks through her haze of confusion. "The problem was, my dearest, that sometimes, the future is better off left a mystery. Predictions can influence the futures they tell of. Blessings can be curses in disguise. Likewise, a curse can in fact be a blessing."

Katara frowns, the skin between her eyebrows pinching, and shakes her head. Her braid sways along her shoulder blades. "That's very…cryptic."

"Why do you ask?" he counters instead of explaining himself.

Katara's chest rattles on a sigh. "Zuko and I, ah, met a fortuneteller in that Earth Kingdom market the other day."

"Ah. I see. And may I inquire as to how that went?"

"Well, uh, it was no big deal, really…"

"If it weren't a 'big deal', you wouldn't have consulted me on my experience with fortunetellers," Iroh replies pragmatically.

Damn. Well, she can't counter that, now, can she? "Well, I…" One of her hands dart up to trace across her necklace's faded ribbon. She works the fabric between her fingertips and mulls things over.

"It's just…some of the things she spoke of…disturbed me."

"Such as?" Concern laces its way through General Iroh's voice; he shifts around to press a comforting hand to the small of her back. She doesn't shake him off, because she needs it right now.

"Nothing!" Katara insists. "Nothing important…really, it was nonsense. Like, my future twists like a river; stay away from tea; I'll m—marry a very powerful bender."

"No tea?" Iroh looks appalled. "What sort of fortune would warn you off of tea?" He sounds like he's working up a good amount of righteous anger over that. Katara's grateful that his love for tea appears to have pushed the rest of her news to the sidelines.

"Yeah, I don't really believe it." Katara rolls her shoulders on a shrug and smiles shyly. "It was just nonsense, really."

"Nothing is nonsense; everything has a meaning."

Katara sucks in a great gulp of air that expands her cheeks. "So, what, there's some great meaning behind a strange old woman telling me to not drink tea?"

"I do not know if there's a great meaning behind it—but there is certainly a great tragedy in never being able to partake of tea." Iroh runs a thumb under his eye and flicks away an invisible tear.

She shakes her head again, mouth curving wryly, and pats Iroh's hand when he excuses himself to the galley. Well, that conversation had gone absolutely nowhere. Perhaps she should be grateful. Iroh's stunningly perceptive moments, when his eyes turn to diamonds that could cut and his gravelly voice turns harsh—those moments disturb her. It's like he's two men, and she still isn't certain of which one is real.

Possibly…both?

This is giving her a headache.

Speaking of headaches…Katara goes stiff and pushes herself to a corner of the deck as Aoi strides by, his helmet gone, his soft brown hair shifting in the breeze. He's been shooting her apologetic looks for days now, and she's not sure if she can take his repentant attitude at the moment. It only irritates her. Only makes her skin itch with a weird sense of shame.

He pauses and glances at her, mouth falling open as if to say something—please, Spirits, not another fumbling apology. He still gives her that _look_ every so often, when he isn't flushing with shame, and she has no desire to be on the receiving end of it.

She doesn't understand it, doesn't understand why anyone would direct it towards her.

Katara coughs and pushes a palm up against her throat, rubbing the stone that rests in the hollow of her collarbone. She stares at Aoi's nose, studies the slope of it, and hopes that her posture indicates that she does _not_ want him getting near her right now. Or ever.

"You, there." And now Prince Zuko is striding down the deck, ponytail swinging back and forth with each step. It's a ridiculous hairstyle, really, but it only serves to make him all the more intimidating. Maybe he would look a little less scary if his head weren't shaved. "Private. Don't you have business below deck?"

Aoi jolts and swivels on his heel, going stiff as a sheet of rock. "Y-your Highness! I'm actually on break right now—"

Zuko folds his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits. "Be that as it may, Private, I run this ship. Not you. If I say you have business below deck, you have business _below deck_." His one good eyebrow draws down on a fierce scowl. "Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Aoi's head bobs up and down. He hotfoots it past the Prince, casting Katara an uncertain look over his shoulder as he goes. Like he expects her to _protest_ or something.

The Waterbender seals her lips tight together and deliberately looks away.

"How did you know?" she croaks after a protracted silence.

Zuko taps his foot in an agitated rhythm before answering, "This ship has eyes and ears everywhere. My Uncle has already…spoken to Private Aoi. He's more than apologetic for his…transgressions."

"Oh." Her mouth rounds on the syllable, and it's all she can manage to get out.

She tries again, listening to seabirds squawk as they wheel overhead. "I didn't—want to talk to anyone—about it." Why hasn't Iroh brought it up, if he knew? "I felt like—I'd done something wr—" She seals her mouth shut.

Silence again.

"Hey," Prince Zuko says abruptly, mouth tugging down like this entire line of conversation pains him, "you shouldn't feel bad because he was a pushy asshole. There's no excuse for his behavior, and you shouldn't feel obligated to forgive him."

It's the most sensible (and kindest) thing she's ever heard him say. Her mouth pops open, and she lets it hang that way, she's so surprised by his understanding attitude. She can't resist the urge to poke at it (_ruin it_).

"Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't feel." There they go, those words, dropping from her lips like jagged little stones. She wants to take them back. She's glad she's said them. She straddles a knife's edge. She must never forget that.

The blacks and whites of her life have been bleeding together into indecisive grays a lot lately. She can't be decisive about anything.

Zuko uncrosses his arms and flings them to the sides. Sparks snap around his fingernails.

"I was trying to _comfort_ you. Can't you let me be _nice_?" Exasperation and temper streak through his voice.

Katara's nostrils flare when she snorts. Her expression twists into a wry smile. "You, nice? The world must be ending."

Smoke pours from his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes tiny sips of air, swallowing the smoke back up. He doesn't so much as cough.

"Not nice, then. Just a…decent human being?" His voice lilts at the end, like he's unsure of his own word choice.

"Are you _capable_of decency?" Is she being mean? Or is she only giving him what he deserves?

_A_s if he _deserves_ her kindness.

_But what has he_done_ to you?_ something in her pipes up. _Has he really done anything that bad?_

Shoved fire into my face. Pushed me into a wall and called me a peasant.

_He could have burned you. Could have brutalized you against that wall._

Oh, like he deserves an award for basic human decency! Not As Big a Jerk As He Could Have Been.

_He held your hair when you got sick_…

Katara pinches the skin between her eyebrows and beats back a headache. The stress from weeks of travel must be addling her mind, if she's truly arguing with her Spirits damned _self_.

Prince Zuko's tapping his fingers against his belt now. "I'm perfectly capable of being decent. I'm an honorable man."

Katara swivels on her heel and watches the ocean churn. It's a warm greenish blue now, as opposed to the cold gray hues of the arctic sea.

"No. You're a petty child."

Zuko turns his head and spits fire over the boat's side. "Like _you_ aren't."

"I'm n—"

Oh. Katara grits her teeth. Maybe…maybe she _is_.

"I—I'm allowed to be a child. I'm only fifteen. You're nearly an adult; you should know better!"

"_Can't I speak to you without you turning it into an argument?_" His words are blurred together by irritation and a slipping temper.

"_You're_ the one who goes around huffing and growling at _me_."

"I don't 'huff'—"

"Ha!"

"I was just trying to comfort you, _youstupidlittlepeasant._"

"Oh—oh! I ought to slap you—"

"Try it, little girl. I'd have you on your back with my foot against your throat before you could blink."

"And I'd have—" _My knife at your pulse_ "—my knee in your groin before _you_could blink!"

Her nose is grazing his again. She doesn't know why they get so close when they argue—trying to trip each other up by invading each other's personal space, she supposes.

They've caught the attention of several crew members, but the men are used to the cousins's violent bickering. It's gotten to the point where they place bets on who will stomp away first. The soldiers never interfere unless one of the cousins looks as if they'll toss the other off the side of the boat.

Zuko's lips yank back from his teeth. "I know how to immobilize an opponent, bitch. You wouldn't get the chance."

"Such coarse language from a _prince_. Shouldn't you know better?"

Steam pushes into her face. Zuko pulls away and paces several feet before stomping back.

"That's rich, coming from a peasant."

Katara throws up her hands and lets her voice go low with mock dismay. "That old insult again? Try being more creative."

His eyes go hooded. "You'd be surprised at how _creative_ I can be." His voice rumbles with threat—but then he flushes and makes a noise like something's caught in his throat.

Katara's scowl melts into a look of confusion. "Wh-what's wrong?"

"Huh? Wh—Nothing!" He crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. Sighs and goes very still until his flush fades. "That just—came out wrong."

"What came out wrong?"

"Nothing!"

"Um?"

Zuko shifts around, props his hips on the ship's side, and remains silent until the scowl on his face fades.

Katara fidgets.

"I just—Aoi's behavior was dishonorable. Uncle trusted me to—to take care of you. And I wasn't there."

"Nothing happened," she says, carefully. "And I doubt anything would have." She means it, too.

He slices his hand through the air. "Much as I resent having to babysit you—"

"Oh, _please_—"

"—something—bad could've happened to you—"

"I can take care of myself."

"_All the same_, I failed both you and Uncle." His voice cracks on the last word.

"And if—" Zuko's hand darts out; he pinches her chin between his fingers and tilts her head until their eyes meet. His face is earnest. His voice is almost gentle. Almost. "And if you asked me to toss him over the side of the boat for you, I would do it without hesitating."

Katara's pupils dilate. He's handsome, she realizes, stomach going sour with the force of the disturbance she feels. Even with that stupid hairstyle and that ugly scar—Prince Zuko, himself, isn't ugly at all. That…surprises her.

But his jawline is sharp and clean; his cheekbones could cut glass. His features would be perfectly even if not for that scar that renders them lopsided. And his eyes…well, they're beautiful, even the slit one. Clear and yellow, and the whole one is framed by heavy lashes.

Her stomach rolls over. This…is Not a Good Thing.

"No need to go that far," Katara rasps, yanking her chin from his grasp and pacing a good five feet away. "Besides which, I can do my own tossing, thanks."

He audibly snorts. "I say again, I could have you on your back with my foot at your throat in less than a heartbeat." A pause. The silence is so empty, yet so full of weight, that she can practically hear the cogs in his brain turn. "Unless I…"

"What?"

"I'm going to teach you to defend yourself."

"…That's ridiculous. I can defend myself just fine!"

"Do you or do you not recall your first day on this ship? I had you up against that wall before you had the chance to blink! If you knew how to defend yourself, that wouldn't have happened."

Another instance of him invading her personal space. She sucks in her cheeks at the recollection, and twists on her heel to spear Zuko with a dirty look.

"Why do you care?" She asks the question that's churned around in her mind since the moment he sent Aoi away. "You don't like me. I certainly don't like you. Why in the names of all the Spirits do you even give a damn?" She flings out her hands, curls her fingers around empty air.

"I _don't_. I mean—Uncle would want me to. I can't be around you all the time. You should know how to fend off idiots like the Private."

Katara spears him with a look, but he's already turned his back on her. A strangled bleat pushes past her lips, a wordless protest, but she knows he won't listen.

_Of course he won't._

* * *

"You should be able to fend people like him off," Zuko says again, having cleared the deck. A few men stand yards away, observing (gawking) quietly. "You aren't a bender, so you're at quite the disadvantage."

Katara carefully doesn't refute or confirm that statement.

"Firebending is in the breath." Zuko sucks in air, slowly. When he pushes it out, flames spill liquid and orange from his mouth. "If you can take away a man's breath, you can compromise his bending."

_Why is he telling me how to take down his own people?_ she thinks, perplexed. Well, of course, he doesn't know that she's the enemy. To him she is a harmless, if duplicitous, peasant.

"Of course, taking _any_ man's breath, bender or not, will work to your advantage if you want to get away." He rolls onto the balls of his feet and gestures her closer. She stays put. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat and gestures again with fierce curls of his fingers.

Katara pads closer. Prince Zuko falls back onto his heels and takes her by the elbows. She has to lock her arms so she doesn't shove him away.

"Relax," Prince Zuko huffs. "Don't lock your muscles up. I haven't _done_ anything yet, and you'll only give yourself a back ache."

Heat crawls across her face, and she doesn't know why. She chews on the inside of her cheek and waits for the blood to fall away from the surface of her skin.

"You threatened to knee me in the groin earlier," he says, cupping her elbows with firm hands, "but do you even know_ how_ to?"

"It's a pretty basic concept," she says primly. Her eyes flash. "Should I demonstrate right now?"

He plows right on like she's said nothing at all. "It's actually not that basic of a concept. You have to aim _just the right way_, or you'll barely do any damage at all. A misaimed strike to the groin won't compromise your opponent. He'll still have his breath, and he'll probably just be pissed."

Oh. Sokka never taught her that. He just told her to shove up her knee, then run like hell.

"Didn't your peasant brother teach you this?" Zuko snaps, as if reading her mind.

"He did the best he could!" Her hackles rise. He can call her whatever he wants—peasant, brat, liar—but, by all the Spirits, he'll leave her brother out of it!

Zuko's mouth compresses, but he doesn't say anything else about Sokka.

"Hold onto me," he says.

Katara goggles.

His hands slide along her arms until his fingers bracelet her wrists. He lifts her hands to the heavy slopes of his shoulders.

"So you can keep your balance. Now _keep_ them there," he orders when her hands twitch. She glares up into his face, opens her palms, and is sure to sink her nails into his skin through his tunic.

He doesn't even grimace. He just lets go of her arms, and she finds out why he wanted her to hold onto him. He stoops far enough to wrap his hand around her thigh, just above the back of her knee, and lifts her foot off the ground before she can process what's going on.

She shrieks and holds on tighter.

"Calm down, would you?" The unscarred half of his face crumples with what might be exasperation. "I'm not going to grope you, for Agni's sake."

"I wouldn't _want_ you to!" she feels compelled to shrill.

"I _don't_ want to." He looks appalled and—repulsed?

"Well, good!"

He rolls his eyes, and if he weren't holding onto her, he looks as if he'd throw up his hands.

"_Can we get on with it_."

Her pout is the only reply she'll give him.

He lifts her leg, lets her knee brush his groin. She's vaguely surprised at the trust he's giving her. She could (is half tempted to) shove her knee up hard and drop him like a stone. But she doesn't. She just keeps still, watches his face, feels his fingers flex on her thigh. He angles her knee, and she wobbles.

"Here," he says, and his warm breath flutters across her scalp. "Like this. From this angle, it should work." He tightens his hold on her leg and brings her knee tighter to his groin. "Yeah. That should work."

"Should I give it a try?" she asks through her teeth, a vindictive impulse driving her words. His proximity is discomforting, to say the least, especially in the wake of her revelation regarding his looks.

Zuko tucks in his chin. "I could always get one of the soldiers and let you practice on him."

A yelp echoes in the distance. Zuko's head snaps up, and he glares at their small audience. Katara hears someone cough. She nearly giggles.

"I think I'll pass."

"Now, to teach you to leverage your weight and use your size—or lack thereof—to your advantage." He shifts her around again, touches her as impersonally as he would an intimate object.

Her temper sparks, flares, ignites. "Stop _touching_ me like some—"

"I'm trying to teach you self-defense, you ingrate—"

"I said _stop_ it!" She shoves against his chest. He stumbles back, gapes at her. Then his face twists, and steam hisses from his nostrils. But then his mouth curls up on a smirk, and he shifts around into an offensive stance, one foot in front of the other, hands coming up.

"Interesting. Try that again, little girl."

"_Don't_ call me a little girl!" She leaps at him, knocks into his chest. But, when he goes down, he brings her with him, clutching her to his chest. He rolls, and she's pinned beneath him, his forearm braced along her neck. He tucks his hips into hers, pins her lower body so she can't squirm away.

"And this," he says, voice coming out between sharp inhales and exhales, "is why you need me to teach you."

Zuko peers down into angry blue eyes. They churn, those eyes, churn like the ocean that carries the ship on its waves. They churn while she curses, while she squirms. He holds his arm tighter to her windpipe and waits for her to stop.

But she doesn't. She just thrashes around and calls him names that are vile enough to have the air around them turning blue. Her soft, curved stomach jolts up into his groin—and the rolling movement ignites a familiar pressure between his legs.

Well, _shit_. Agni take it all to hell. The reaction is instinctual, and Agni knows it doesn't take much more than a shift in the breeze or waking up in the morning to give a teenaged boy an erection, but—she won't stop _squirming_, and she's bound to figure out what's going on if she bothers to concentrate on the rise of flesh against her stomach.

And, impersonal reaction or not, that is _not_ something he wants her noticing.

Zuko swallows a yelp and leaps off of her in a lithe movement, throwing his knees to his chest and pinching them together. Someone calls out. He tips his head, squints across the horizon.

_Land_. He knows that slice of beach anywhere.

Zuko scrambles to his feet, the heaviness between his legs forgotten, and tips his upper body over the ship's side. "Home," he says, and his voice is thick with more emotions than he can put a name to.

Going home is always complicated, for him.

Katara hooks her fingers around Zuko's arm and uses the leverage to get standing. He doesn't shake her off.

Her eyes land on the stripe of beach. _Home_, Zuko said. They're almost there. They're going to land _today_, she thinks, throat clogging so tight it's a wonder she can still breathe.

Reality crashes down onto her shoulders. She forgets the fortuneteller, forgets Aoi, forgets how heavy and warm Zuko was on top of her.

Katara thrusts her body over the side and, much like her first day aboard this ship, becomes violently ill.

* * *

The palace is a sharply angled mass of heavy reds and blacks. Katara feels like she's been swallowed up by some nightmarish beast. At least it's cool in here, and the windows are all curtained with heavy fabrics, so the sun's yellowish white light cannot spear into her eyes. The heat outside peels off the clouds and floats down in sticky waves, and she can't stand another second of it.

They rode into the courtyard in boxy things Iroh called palanquins, and Katara's blood had stirred with disturbance at the idea of other people carting her around in such a way. But when she complained, Zuko threatened to carry her over his shoulder.

"This way, dearest," Iroh says. Zuko has disappeared somewhere, and she can't be bothered to find out. The servants won't stop gaping at her.

She wonders when she'll meet the Fire Lord, and her stomach turns over.

"Where are we—" They stop aside a carved door that's at least three times her height, and she pushes back into Iroh as trepidation surges.

"Before we get you settled—before you meet my family—we must first make certain that you're presentable." Then his voice drops, along with his cheer expression. "If you want to convince them, you must look the part, Katara."

Katara gulps and nods jerkily.

The door creaks open, and a wave of too-sweet air hits her nose and curls her hair.

A pale, diminutive woman hops forward and presses her fist into her hand, inclining her torso as she does so. Her black hair is caught up in a series of elaborate twists. "Your Highness."

The woman latches her fingers around Katara's wrist and yanks her into the room without ceremony. More hands take hold of her, and she's pulled and prodded and stripped before she can so much as blink.

Oh—oh?

Someone tips her over into a tub of warm, scented water. She sputters, surges upwards, blinks stinging water from her eyes.

If this is her welcome, she can only imagine how horrendous the rest of her time spent in this palace will be.

* * *

A/N: Welp, there you have it. Next up, Katara gets trussed up to meet the Fire Lord, Azula makes her first appearance, we have more Zuko/Katara bickering, and a member of the royal family finds out about Katara's waterbending.

Leave me a review telling me what you think? And I'm contemplating upping the rating due to coarse language, violence, and sexual references. Tell me what you think about that, too, if you don't mind? Thanks my loves!


	6. Shattering

A/N: Oh look an update whoops. You can thank the end of my school semester for this, and you can also thank my gorgeous beta for looking it over and making it into more than the word vomit it previously was (who am I kidding it's still word vomit). Her tumblr url is ijustlurkhere btw; you should def go follow her because the girl's got talent. Any mistakes that remain are mine alone. Feel free to point them out, too =D

Also I lied about a thing-due to my wanting to get this chapter out before 2060, I cut it shorter than originally planned. As such, Azula will not be making her appearance until chapter 7, and that certain member of the royal family will not discover Katara's waterbending until chapter 7 or 8. Whoops~

Also! Thank you all so so much for the reviews and follows and guh you're all just fab. I'd like to thank you by writing a drabble or oneshot for this chapter's first reviewer! Any pairing, though I'd prefer it be for a fandom I'm familiar with.

Enough from me, on with the show!

* * *

_Cause fire is the devil's only friend._

-Don McLean, "American Pie"

* * *

KATARA SHAKES CLUMPS of wet hair from her eyes and coughs up water that tastes like flowers. The milky, perfumed stuff pours from her nostrils, and it stings on its way out. She can barely see a thing—maybe it's because of the steam that permeates this room. Maybe it's because she's so disoriented. In any case, her vision is a smear of white and reds. Her ears buzz with feminine chatter.

Her heart starts to thrum with the beginnings of panic. What in La's good name are they going to do with her? And where is General Iroh when she needs him? What made him think it would be okay to drop her off in this room brimming with strangers and just _leave_?

Katara curls her fingers over the tub's porcelain brim and squints into one of the women's faces. Someone dumps a bucket of steaming water over her head, and she screams.

"My lady," the first woman says, peering into Katara's face, "please, do calm down. We merely wish to make you presentable."

"Pr—presentable for what?" The water is too hot, and yet Katara's teeth chatter.

"You are Prince Iroh's daughter, yes? News of your existence has been travelling round the palace for weeks. Fire Lord Ozai very much wishes to meet his niece."

She is going to vomit all over again, right here in this tub brimming with perfumed water and bath salts. She is going to vomit into the water and be forced to stew in a pool of her own throw-up.

"H—how did the news get here so fast?" she stammers as one of the other, nameless women scrubs some foamy substance into her hair, muttering about how _filthy_ Katara is.

"Messenger hawk, of course." The first woman folds her hands together and shoots Katara an unreadable look. It might be one of disdain, or curiosity, or—who really knows? It's too vague, too subtle, to identify.

Are all the people in this palace so very difficult to read?

"Oh—oh. _Hey_!" she snaps when one of the women snatches up her arm and nearly peels her skin off with rough strokes of a sponge. "Is all of this really necessary?" Her voice trembles with indignation.

"Of course it's necessary," the first woman says, painted mouth morphing into an _O_. "We can't have you traipsing about the palace in peasant's rags. Agni knows that messy rope you called a hairstyle wouldn't do, either."

Katara seethes so fiercely that, if she were a Firebender, the bath's water would boil with the force of her anger and insult. She shouldn't be surprised at the snobbery. And she isn't. But it makes her teeth clench and her head pulse all the same.

"I am Wei, my lady." Katara snaps her eyes shut when another jug of water is poured over her head. At least she doesn't scream this time. "I will be your attendant from here on out." Wei plucks up one of Katara's clenched hands and smooths out her aching fingers. "Oh my, these nails of yours are horrendous. We'll have to take you to the royal spa another day."

"What—what's wrong with my nails?" Katara wipes bathwater from her eyes and squints at the nails in question. Her eyes travel from her nails, down her arms, land on her half-submerged breasts. Katara isn't one to be ashamed of her own body, but she's unaccustomed to being bared to whole knots of people. In the Southern Water Tribe, baths were limited to damp cloths being run along carefully exposed patches of skin, and in the privacy of one's own hut. It was a practice born out of pragmatism rather than modesty, what with the perpetual arctic bite in the air, and the looming threat of hypothermia.

Katara has never been stripped naked and tossed into a tub in front of a whole pack of strange women. Red settles in her cheeks, borne more out of embarrassment than the hot water settling into her skin and weighing down her hair.

"My lady, the better question is what _isn't_ wrong with your nails?" Wei sniffs, nostrils flaring subtly.

"Give me my clothes back!" Katara ignores the jibe, sinking farther down into the tub. It occurs to her, on a sudden bubble of panic, that her dagger is still hidden away in her robes. Either it will be found and she'll be killed, or it—and the comb—will be lost in some pile of laundry, and she'll lose her last physical connection to her family. To her brother.

"_You'll never lose me, Sokka. I promise."_

But _she_ might lose _him_. The comb and dagger were supposed to anchor her to her brother, to the carved ice of the South Pole. What if she loses those little tools of bone? Will the last tethers to her memories of home be cut?

"Give them back!" she repeats, swinging out with her arms, knuckles crashing into someone's cheekbone. The unfortunate victim yelps shrilly, and Katara might apologize under other circumstances, but she's strung too tightly by her own plight to bother.

"Lady Katara!" Wei shrills, gripping Katara's arms with surprisingly strong hands, forcing her back down into the water. "Lady Katara, please! Those rags need to be burned; you'll be provided with an entire new wardrobe, no need to fret—_Lady Katara_!"

"If you burn them I'll—" Katara hooks her fingers into claws, scrabbles at Wei's face. "I'll bite your nose off!"

"_My lady_!"

It's more than just the comb and the dagger. It's that pile of blue cloth. It's the color that marks her for who she is, where she comes from. Even if she can't wear them while she lives here, even if she can only stuff them under her pillow and smell the lingering scent of seal fat and arctic air while she drifts off to sleep—then so be it.

_I won't let them take away who I am._

Katara bursts back out of the water, hooking a leg over the tub. She's naked, soaked, and she's surely frightening the piss out of her "attendants", and she doesn't care. Everything, all her fear and hate and the overpowering sense of _I'm going to die I'm going to die they'll find me out and I'm going to die_—it's all boiling over, and she can't breathe, she won't ever be able to breathe until she gets her hands on her clothes, on her dagger and comb—

The door claps open, hits the wall with a mighty, unpleasant _thunk_ that shakes Katara's eardrums and startles her out of her daze.

"_What_ is th—Agni, fuck."

Katara wobbles in place, hand raised as if to slap Wei, her other hand braced on the tub's rim. She squints past the fading puffs of steam, eyes catching on the figure in the open doorway.

Oh.

_Oh_.

Isn't this a horrible sort of irony?

"Katara! What in Agni's name are you—_get back in the damn tub_!" Zuko's broad palm flies to cover his eyes, and he's flushed a furious red under the pale seal of his skin. "For fuck's sake, get her back in the damn tub!"

"Prince Zuko—"

His fingers part, and amber peeks out, sparking with fury and humiliation. "Do as I say!"

"Prince, she isn't cooperating—"

"Get her in the tub or I'll do it myself!"

"Don't touch me," Katara shrieks, clinging to the tub's edge, shaking stringy clumps(1) of hair from her eyes. "If any of you touch me I swear to all that is sacred I'll fr—gut you!"

Zuko crosses the space between them in the split second between one blink and the next. Katara's mouth rounds on a scream that won't release, and her limbs lock as tight as rusted gears. Zuko's too-hot fingers pinch around her forearms, and he shakes her, gently enough not to hurt, but violently enough to make her teeth clap together.

"_Katara_." There it is; her name again. She must look like a demonic spirit come to life, if he's desperate enough to use her given name, rather than "Waterbender" or "peasant" or "hey, you". "Katara, you need to calm down. You'll hurt someone."

"Maybe that's what I want," she huffs, her own hands flipping around to claw at his biceps, nails sinking into smooth fabric. "Maybe I want—to hurt someone." He doesn't know the half of it, none of them do.

His eyes narrow imperceptibly. Then they widen, and his ruined face softens like he…like he understands? How could Prince Zuko understand _anything_ to do with her? He isn't looking at her breasts, or the bare stretch of her abdomen, but his eyes have caught hold of hers and won't let go. Katara grits her teeth, struggles not to melt under the force of her shame—he isn't looking at her like she's a woman, or even a girl, and that should make her feel better—that he isn't eating her body up with his eyes the way most men would under these circumstances—but it only makes her feel like more of an object and less of a person.

He's so very good at making her feel like an object.

But right now, her heart is beating against her chest with the force of her panic and anguish, and she feels so very _human_ that she aches with it.

"Be careful, what you say around here." Zuko tips his chin down, his one eyebrow drawing tight against the slope of his nose. "You're going to be judged constantly. Everything you do, everything you say, every breath and blink, will be held against you. You're going to be measured, and if you're found lacking—you will be very, very unhappy with the results." His fingers gentle along her forearms, smearing the droplets of perfumed bathwater.

The women are staring, daring to mutter amongst themselves. One of them whispers, "Unstable," and Zuko's head snaps around, teeth gnashing.

"Don't you dare speak about a member of the royal family in such a way," and Katara realizes that Prince Zuko's talking about _her_.

The perpetrator stifles a squeak, mutters a frantic apology. Katara's not looking; no, her eyes are trained on the sharp cut of Zuko's jawline, but she hears the slap of skin hitting the floor.

"I don't have time for your kowtowing. Get off your knees and make yourself useful. Gather up Lady Katara's things and take them to the suite of rooms assigned to her."

_Lady Katara. He called me Lady Katara._

"Pr-Prince, we were going to burn those rags—"

"_Did I stutter_?"

"Wait." Katara's grip on his biceps shifts to a mere caress of fingertips. She's trembling. "L-leave them. I'll take them there myself."

Zuko's head whips back around, and she swears she sees him flush again.

_Oh. Right. I'm still naked_.

"If you…insist." His thumbs are resting in the crooks of her elbows now. "What, may I ask, brought this on? Did they hurt you? Insult you?"

"What do you care?" she husks.

"I told you before. Uncle entrusted your safety and wellbeing to me. What's more," Zuko's eyes shoot over to the knot of women, and his scowl is so vicious that it makes even Katara quake, "no one should touch any member of the royal family in a way that offends them."

"I…" Katara struggles to speak past the knot in her throat. "I, they just, they threw me into this tub without asking first, they took away my clothes, but—but I'm fine. I would have gotten out of the tub, eventually."

Zuko snorts. "Your tactics are extreme as always, Wei."

A rustling, as if the woman in question has folded her arms. "Lady Katara overreacted, Your Highness. She became violent at the mention of our ridding her of her old rags—"

"And what did you do when she appeared distressed?"

"We, ah, well I insisted that she would be better off without them, that she would have no use for them—"

Zuko's hands clench on Katara's arms, and she feels his palms heat against her skin, but she knows his wrath is not directed at her (for once). No, his yellow eyes have pinned the knot of servant women, and the phrase _if looks could kill_ floats across Katara's mind.

"And, even after she continued to show mounting signs of distress, you persisted in this behavior? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Well, I—"

"Is. It?" His hands clench and unclench rhythmically. Katara would wince at the pain, if she didn't feel so very numb.

"Well, I suppose so, yes—"

Clouds of smoke pour out of Zuko's mouth, slither along his jaw, taint the air. "Apologize to her."

"Prince—"

"_Do it now_."

Katara cracks her eyes wide, tips her face around. Wei has gone waxy pale, and her small headpiece trembles where it rests in her elaborately styled hair. "M-my lady, I am so very sorry if I offended you—"

"I don't care," Katara says, and her voice is brittle. "I don't…I just want to be left alone. I just want that—"

"No chance of that, while you're here," Zuko says matter-of-factly, depositing her carefully into the tub, lowering her with a steady grip on her arms until the cooling water rises above her breasts. He's flushed such a dark shade of red—anger or embarrassment, Katara will never know—that it looks painful. "I would, ah, I would stay to make sure that they don't upset you again, but—"

"No." Katara shakes her head vehemently. "I want all of you to go away."

"They need to prepare you to meet my father." Zuko shifts around until his back is facing her, hands propped on his hips. Silk folds softly along his back; it's the color of old blood, but glossy as stuff fresh from the vein. "I'm afraid these _ladies_ will be staying with you."

Zuko snaps at his robes, starts to clip over to the door. "I'll be in the next room. If they do anything else to distress you, yell."

He says one last thing before exiting: "Let the girl keep her old clothes." With that, he's gone, surprisingly composed for a boy who just saw his supposed cousin naked.

_That makes the both of us now_.

At least her anchors to home are saved. At least _she_ is saved, for now.

The look on Wei's face—a new bud of resentment—worries her.

But she was already prepared to make enemies.

One more foe is water off her back.

* * *

KATARA PERCHES ON a cushioned stool, bare toes curled against the floor, a towel tucked under her arms, wrapping around her torso. Now that the steam has dissipated, she can get a better look at her surroundings, and her eyes rove along unfamiliar styles of furnishings, bounce across foreign extravagance.

So much red and gold, so much richness that makes her eyes hurt and her temples throb. So many twisting knots of carved metal and stone. Everything looks so…heavy, like it's all bearing down on her, ready to crush her skull.

She hates it, but that isn't a surprise.

An attendant—a younger woman, a _girl_ really—kneels behind Katara, working a brush through her damp web of hair, extricating tangles with businesslike strokes and tugs. Katara winces with each pull—this girl is not nearly as gentle with a brush as Sokka was. Perhaps she isn't used to the wiry fullness of Water Tribe hair?

Wei minces over to her, a length of rusty red fabric folded over her arm. Her mouth is pursed, but the shadows of resentment in her eyes have faded away, and Katara wonders if they were ever really there to begin with. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe her anxiety, the remnants of her panic attack, clouded her mind more than she thought, made her see things that weren't really there.

Maybe.

"Lady Katara." Wei inclines her head. "If it's not too much trouble, I would like to dress you now." She shakes out the formal qipao, carved nails tapping against the frog fasteners.

Katara eyes the dress like it's coated in poison. _So now you ask my permission to touch me_, is what she wants to say, but she keeps her mouth sealed. The girl behind her gives a particularly mighty yank, and her eyes start to water.

"If you must." At least her own robes are folded up neatly on a low table, the comb and dagger nestled safe and undiscovered in the pocket. Katara stretches out her legs, folding one foot over the other. Her limbs feel loose and warm from the bath, but her spine is hard and cold as an icicle.

The girl who was brushing Katara's hair sweeps the drying net of it over her shoulders, pushes to her feet, and clips away. Katara traces her fingers over it—it's never felt quite this smooth before, and she swears, as she winds careful hands along it, that there isn't a knot to be found.

Wei takes Katara's hand in an impersonal, but gentle, grip, and lifts her to her feet.

"Remove the towel, please." A short line of attendants bunch around Katara, wariness clear in their eyes—all varying shades of brown and amber—various bits of clothing folded over their arms.

Katara gnaws on her bottom lip, but drops the towel, and holds out her arms with as blank an expression she can muster. She snaps her eyes shut as they poke and prod her, as they wrap her up in smooth undergarments, drape her in layers of gauzy clothing. The fine cloth feels foreign on her skin, and it's far too light, not the least bit insulating. What's the point of clothing, if it lets the outside's temperature leak past its barrier, slick along your skin?

"You look lovely, Lady Katara," Wei murmurs, fastening the elaborate qipao's collar, smoothing her fingers out along Katara's shoulders until the fabric lays smooth, not a wrinkle to be seen. "Your father will be proud."

Katara's stomach clenches because, no, her father _would_ not be proud of her; at least she doesn't think he would be proud to see his only daughter trussed up like a Fire Nation courtier. The red of the cloth feels like poison on her skin.

"I hope so," Katara mumbles, tilting her chin, feeling the high collar itch at her throat. "I really do hope so."

Efficient fingers catch in her hair, wind it and tug it. She feels something pinch at her scalp, and when one of the attendants holds a tiny mirror up, she realizes that they've styled her thick hair into a topknot, secured it with a tiny headpiece that's _almost_ a crown, but not quite. The topknot she had Sokka pull her hair into, back in the South Pole, was a sloppy sham compared to this formal, carefully tucked and styled look.

She feels another piece of herself peel off and flake away.

Katara grimaces when Wei dabs paint onto her mouth and cheeks, when the girl who worked the tangles out of her hair slides a brush along her lids. Katara blinks her eyes open, peers back into the mirror, and nearly buckles over with shock, because that is not _her_ face. Her lips are not that red, her eyelids should not be coated with pale blue. Her cheeks have never been so rosy.

_They're taking _me _away. They're covering up who I am, and I have to let them, or I'll lose. I'll die_.

"You look so very lovely." Wei inclines her head, something like pride curving her mouth. "You do the royal family credit."

Katara has to imagine how _that man's_ blood will feel on her hands so she doesn't faint, or get sick. She imagines his blood, redder than the dress she wears, coating her fingers, sticking under her nails, and suddenly, she can breathe like normal.

"Thank…you," she says mechanically, inclining her head, watching her loose strands of hair slide along her shoulders.

She pretends that the red of the dress, the red coating her lips, is _that man's_ blood, and suddenly, she doesn't feel so very out of place in these clothes after all.

One step closer. One…step…closer.

* * *

"YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL, daughter." Iroh's dry, sturdy fingers clasp hers, and he inclines his head over her hand like she's something worth praising, treasuring. Her heart threatens to clench and crack, and she stifles it, because she does _not_ want to feel affection for this man. He is too kindly, too paternal, too interested in Katara's well-being.

Why? _Why?_ He owes her nothing. She _is_ nothing to him, or she should be nothing.

"Thank you…Father." Katara inclines her head in return, because what else is she supposed to do? "I just…don't feel like myself, in this."

"It is quite the drastic change." Iroh shifts his body to the side and tucks Katara's hand into the crook of his elbow, coaxing her down the corridor. "You hardly resemble the young girl I met in the South Pole. You look…grown up."

"That's not what I meant," she says under her breath, dipping her chin down, fingers catching in her gauzy skirt. It's dangerous, to elaborate. If they think she has more loyalty towards the Southern Tribe than the Fire Nation, that will spell trouble for her, she is sure of it.

A mammoth set of doors rise up before them, carved with depictions of flame and weird, scaled animals—dragons?—and Katara has to breathe breathe _breathe_ through her nose.

"You'll be all right, my dear." Iroh pats her hand, but his face is creased grimly.

Katara just nods jerkily, and squeezes her eyes shut when the doors sweep inwards, as if pushed by phantom hands.

She opens her eyes again, and all she sees as Iroh ushers her forward is a column of fire.

She doesn't register anything else. Not the huge pillars that soar to an impossibly faraway ceiling, not the table-sized map spread out along the floor, nothing, nothing but the sheet of fire and the black blot that rises up from behind it.

The blot shifts, twists into the silhouette of a person, she _thinks _it's a person, and that person spreads their arms, and the fire parts as easily as if it were a gauzy set of curtains.

"You've come home, brother. And son."

Someone's standing on Katara's other side now, and she peeks over to see Zuko, once again strapped into armor—only, this stuff is edged in gold, and it looks more ceremonial than practical—a small crown tucked into the band of cloth that secures his tail of hair. He doesn't so much as glance at her, doesn't so much as twitch. Nothing indicates that he sees her, or cares. His cheeks don't even sting with red the way hers do, at the memory of him seeing her naked as the day she was born.

"Father," Zuko clips, just as Iroh says, in an affable voice, "Brother."

Iroh's hand winds down Katara's arm, settles on her elbow, and he's stepping aside, leaving her wide open and vulnerable to the Fire Lord's shadowed eyes.

She can hardly see his face from this distance, with the crackling fire layering shadow and light over his body, but his eyes…she swears she sees them glint, the color of old gold.

"…And _you_ are my niece, I presume."

Now Zuko acknowledges her, gritting out from between his teeth, and she can barely hear him over the fire's roar, "Bow. Get on your knees, and bow to him. Do it." He sounds…desperate, almost worried.

She should. She should fall to her hands and knees and touch her forehead to the floor, but her limbs have frozen; they feel as if they've been filled with lead, weighing down her fingers, her toes, rusting in the crooks of her limbs so she can't bend, can't yield.

"_Bow._" It's a hiss.

"No." Is that her voice, all grit and defiance? Is that _her_ voice, committing a blasphemy in front of the man who can have her killed, tortured, strung up by her thumbs, whenever the whim strikes him? "I won't bow."

Katara's lifts her face, and it is painted with defiance.

"Yes, I'm your niece, Fire Lord Ozai. I'm going to have to warn you—I've never been one to bow."

* * *

I'm not sure how anti-climatic that was, but thank you all so much for reading! I love each and every one of you. If you have any feedback, anything to say, feel free to review! I hope to make the next chapter longer. Until then xoxo Song


	7. Supplication

**A/N:** Whee, I wrote most of this in one day. Here is the promised Azula, as well as the waterbending reveal. This chapter was beta'd by my friend Prosper Jade, who writes beautifully. Any errors/plot holes that remain are mine and mine alone.

* * *

_"There are no secrets that time does not reveal."_

_-Jean Racine_

* * *

SOKKA HASN'T FELT this hollow since the weeks (months, years) following his parents' deaths. He hasn't felt like someone punched through his breastbone and ripped out something pulsing, something vital and private, since he saw the blood that stained his father's mouth, since he heard his mother's lungs rattle for air that she couldn't keep in—

No, he hasn't felt quite like this in some time.

"You look like a starving man," Ataneq, the only other boy close to his age (well, to be exact, Artaneq is twelve, but that's better than the snotty five year olds that otherwise populate this barren hunk of ice) observes, touching stubby fingers to the deep hollows under Sokka's cheekbones. "Or like—"

"Like?" Sokka presses his hands to the backs of Ataneq's, briefly, before pushing the younger boy away. "Like what, kid?"

Ataneq sits back on his heels, scratching at his backside, wrinkling his nose in thought. "Like…someone who's been possessed by an evil spirit. You know, the ones with the blue claws that our Gran Grans always told us about. The ones that sink into a person's heart and make them sick."

"That bad, huh?" Sokka rocks up to his feet and paces around the igloo, gathering up his spear in shaking hands. He pictures shoving it through that scarred bastard's chest, and something at the base of his spine goes loose with imagined relief. Prince Zuko…he's become the face for everything Sokka hates in the same way their parents' murderer is the face of everything Katara loathes.

"I—I mean—not _that_ bad." Obvious backtracking. He hears Ataneq shift around and cough. "I dunno what I'm talking about, I guess."

_No_, Sokka thinks, fingering a leather strap tied around the spear, _you really don't._

"It's just…" La, is the kid really still talking? Hasn't he made his point? Sokka looks like death personified, and he knows it. He's looked this way since his sister boarded that hellish hulk of metal and sailed off to a land swarming with devil-eyed enemies.

"I just…I'm worried about you, I guess." Ataneq's voice cracks, and Sokka knows, from personal experience, how embarrassing it is to admit to someone who isn't a member of your family (or a girl), that you care about their well-being. It's doubly embarrassing for a prepubescent boy.

Ataneq picks his nose during meals and falls asleep during sparring, but he's a good kid. He shouldn't have to squirm and stammer and admit that he's worried about Sokka when there are more pressing things to be concerned about—like the fate of Sokka's precious baby sister.

"You don't need to be," Sokka says firmly, even as his knuckles go white. He runs the tip of one finger over the spear's head, presses down until blood beads to the surface of his skin. He doesn't even feel the sting of it.

His stomach flips over and turns sour. Blood. Has Katara shed blood yet? Or has she shed the blood of another?

He doesn't know which he would prefer.

"You don't need to be," Sokka repeats, hands falling loosely to his sides, the spear's end clattering along the floor. "I'm fine." He forces his tone to go light, forces his eyes to shine with an enthusiasm he doesn't feel (hasn't felt since they took her). "You gonna join me on this hunting trip or not? We're running low on meat."

* * *

"_I'VE NEVER BEEN one to bow_."

Even as she speaks these defiant (reckless dangerous damning) words, Katara prepares herself to be killed. All she's worked for snuffed out in a moment of thoughtless daring. She's felt the heat of a fire, whether it be contained in a pit or blazing out of control. She's scalded herself on pots, seared her tongue on too-hot food.

But she's never been consumed by fire, never felt it char her bones and melt her skin. She wonders what it will feel like, and lets her eyelids flutter shut as she braces herself to lose everything before she even started.

The burn never comes.

At her sides, Iroh and Zuko have gone silent and still as hunks of marble. She swears that they aren't even breathing. Maybe they are, in tiny sips, silent little gusts that can't be heard over the fire's roar.

The fact that_ she_ is still breathing catches her attention and holds it more than anything else.

Fire Lord Ozai's voice slinks down from that throne of fire. It has that same rasping quality as Zuko's, only it is much deeper, and somehow hollow, like there are no emotions behind it. But, no, _that_ isn't quite accurate. There _is_ emotion in it, she just—she just can't tell what it is.

The emotions this man is expressing don't matter. The fact that she lives, that he hasn't burnt her to cinders at the first flare of defiance—that is what matters.

"Never been one to bow, you say? You may be related to me after all."

Katara peels one eye open, and then the other.

Zuko's hand has locked around her forearm in a death grip, and she doesn't remember when that happened. She can't really feel it; her senses have been clouded over by a swarm of invisible wasps, stinging her till she goes numb, till she can't feel anything, physical or otherwise.

"F-father." Zuko is actually _shaking_, shaking so hard that his ponytail swishes back and forth along his scalp (an image that might be comedic at any other time, in any other place). Does he care that much about Katara's welfare, or is there something else driving him to stammer like a nervous little boy, to bite his nails into the Waterbender's numbed skin? "Father, sh-she…please forgive her, she doesn't know what she's say—"

"Hush, child." Just two words and Zuko visibly collapses in on himself, shrinking into a little boy. Even his profile seems to soften, and Katara swears she sees his bottom lip tremble for the barest of seconds.

"My apologies, Father." Zuko bows so deeply that Katara thinks he might fall onto his face.

Katara blinks, still surprised that she hasn't been burned, and watches the Fire Lord descend to the floor, his elaborate set of robes swishing out behind him like the wings of some dark spirit.

Iroh's voice rumbles into the silence. "Brother. My daughter carries a fiery spirit in her that does the royal family credit. I for one am impressed by that spirit."

"I never said I was _unimpressed_, brother." Fire Lord Ozai clasps his hands behind his back, and the movement draws his shoulders up, makes them look even broader. He's so tall, so broad, that he's like a giant, even against the backdrop of this mammoth room.

Katara has never felt quite as tiny as she does now. She's never felt so…_insignificant_.

"Very little in this world surprises me. But you, child, you've managed to catch me off guard." Katara can see Ozai's face now, and it's almost eerie, how strongly he resembles Zuko. If Zuko were older, if he didn't have that scar…he could pass as Ozai's twin brother. Same slanting cheekbones that press out against frigidly pale skin. Same carved, pouting mouth.

Yellow eyes that turn molten in the firelight.

Yes. Zuko is very much his father's son.

Is their temper the same? Perhaps not—if it were, Ozai would have shoved a handful of fire under Katara's nose the very moment she chose to backtalk him.

Or perhaps Ozai's temper is just as vicious as Zuko's, and he's simply more skilled at keeping it in check until the opportune moment.

Zuko's clutching Katara's arm so hard now that the manacle-like touch manages to pierce the cloud of numbness. Her lips part on a whine of protest, and she jerks away from him, only to stumble and careen to the side. Her knees buckle, and her body twists as it flops to the floor. The impact of her palms against the marble stings, bringing blood to the surface, blood that will spread and bloom into sickly bruises.

"Hm." Curved shoes pause five inches away from her face. "It would appear that even proud children such as yourself bow eventually."

Her fingers curl against the floor.

If there were water in this room, she would drown him.

"I tripped." Her voice is hoarse.

"Perhaps it is Agni's way of humbling you." The curling tip of Ozai's shoe comes forward, and Katara braces herself for a harsh impact.

Instead, all she receives is a gentle nudge against her cheekbone, and that is somehow more insulting than a kick. Like she isn't worth the effort of true punishment.

"Brother." Her false father has gone back to being the stern Iroh, the one with steel in his voice. "I'd thank you not to poke at my daughter like she is nothing more than chattel."

"Ah, yes, your _daughter_." Ozai's feet pace away, stop in front of Iroh's feet. Katara watches through the curtain of her hair, tasting her own pulse on her tongue. "About that. This girl is thirteen or fourteen, I would guess—"

"Fifteen," Katara rasps. Ozai's too far away to kick her, maybe he isn't inclined to kick her at all, but she braces herself for it anyway.

"—fifteen, and you have just learned of her existence?"

"You and I have both met nobles who weren't aware of their illegitimate progeny for decades on end. How is this any different, brother?"

"Ah, yes, fair point." That conversational tone skids down Katara's spine and lands in her stomach, weighing her down like a stone, keeping her kneeling on the floor, legs sprawled, fingers clenched. "Fair point indeed."

Silence, permeated only by gusts of breath and the fire's constant rumble.

"If you wish to keep her here—well, that's going to be problematic."

"She is illegitimate, brother. She poses no threat to the throne."

"Ah, we both know that isn't true. Assassination attempts have been made by bastards before."

Assassination attempts. Hah. Should Katara tell him that the only one in danger of being assassinated—aside from those who stand in her way—is her parents' killer?

"For all I know, the girl could be plotting against my children's lives at this very moment."

Children? Plural? She doesn't remember how many children are a part of the royal family. Does Zuko have siblings? She _thinks_ that she learned of a girl child, at one point.

Iroh snorts audibly. "Brother, Katara had plenty an opportunity to harm both myself and Prince Zuko while on board that ship. She took none of them."

"I wouldn't harm Zuko," Katara pipes up, eyes still on the floor. That isn't quite true; she would scratch off his face and freeze him to the floor, if he made her angry enough. She would harm him if it meant saving her own life. But kill him? No. For some reason, she shrinks away from the mere thought. "I wouldn't harm him."

It sounds like a declaration of fealty.

And Zuko kneels beside her, slides his arm around her waist, and slowly props her up into a sitting position. His bicep presses into her shoulder, sears her skin through her qipao and his armor.

"But would you harm me?" A pretty voice—a female one, Katara thinks.

"Azula." For the first time, Fire Lord Ozai's voice goes harsh. "I do not recall inviting you."

"My curiosity got the better of me, Father." She speaks flippantly, but there's something like true fear in her voice. "The palace has been all atwitter regarding the arrival of my cousin."

"Perhaps it would do you good to temper that curiosity, my girl." But Ozai holds out his hand, and a lithe young girl slides into view to clasp it, bowing shallowly. Her slick black hair is caught up in a topknot, and her mouth is painted the same vivid crimson as Katara's.

She looks so much like her brother that it makes Katara a little sick. She looks so much like her brother, but there's a certain vindictive attitude that curves her mouth and tilts her shoulders, a vindictiveness that Katara has never, ever seen in Prince Zuko, not even at his worst.

"Perhaps," the girl murmurs, eyes dancing across Katara, wholly unreadable. They linger on the brace of Zuko's arm along Katara's torso, and that painted mouth twitches.

Katara doesn't know what that twitch of muscle means, but she doesn't like it.

"Princess Azula, I would like to introduce you to your cousin, Katara."

"Cousin." That familiar bow, that press of a fist into an open palm.

Katara echoes it, though she resents it. _None_ of these people deserve her respect, except perhaps General Iroh. Even in his case, it is a begrudging respect.

"Cousin," Katara says.

"Brother. Uncle." Princess Azula doesn't bow to her true family members, oddly enough. "It's been a year, hasn't it?"

A year? A year at sea?

At her side, Zuko grumbles. Iroh says nothing.

Ozai paces back to where Katara kneels, and stoops, his draping robes shuddering with the motion. His fingers wrap around her chin, repulsively hot. Her eyes itch with tears, but she won't let them fall.

"The Fire Nation is a dangerous place. Be careful, my girl. The nobles would soon as shove a knife into your spine as look at you."

Katara doesn't know what to make of this warning, this threat, whatever it is. So she nods, despising the way Ozai's fire-hardened fingers catch on her skin. If Zuko's eyes are a hard amber, Ozai's are a toxic yellow.

Zuko actually _shrinks_ into Katara's side, and his fingers go slick with sweat where they wrap across her stomach. Does he fear his father? He must; there is no other explanation for this stiffness, for this uncharacteristic timidity.

Ozai releases Katara's face and stands in a graceful unfolding of limbs.

"Ah, yes, it has been a year. Iroh, Zuko, you really ought to settle in, relax. As for my niece—" And he says the word without a hint of irony "—a servant will take you to your quarters."

"Father." Azula pushes her chin forward, bends her mouth into a guileless smile. "May I take Katara to the tearoom? Mai and Ty Lee are rarely around these days, and it's such a bore, being the only teenage girl in the palace. I'd _love_ to get to know my cousin."

Zuko snorts, almost inaudibly.

Iroh kneels at Katara's other side, and with his broad hands, coaxes the teenagers to their feet. "I do not think…"

"Don't be such a bore, Uncle." Azula wiggles her fingers. Her attention is all for Ozai. "Father? May I?"

"Of course, my dear. I'm sure Katara could use a friend."

Katara's stomach winds itself into knots. Maybe…maybe Ozai isn't the real danger, she reflects. Maybe he isn't the one she should be wary of.

She shoves the thought aside and shoots Azula a false smile. She will not dwell on that. She will just hold tight to the fact that she survived this first meeting.

Now she just has to survive the minutes (hours, weeks) that sprawl between now and the day she can exact her revenge.

* * *

"YOU DON'T LOOK very much like my uncle…what was it, again?"

_As if you didn't hear your father and uncle repeat my name several times, you smug bitch. As if you didn't say it yourself_.

"Katara," the Waterbender supplies helpfully, a paper-thin teacup held loosely in her hands. She has to _remind_ herself to hold it loosely, every so often forcefully relaxing her cramped fingers, so as to not crush the delicate porcelain. _That_ would certainly leave a lasting impression of the negative variety.

"Katara, yes, of course. How…negligent of me to forget." Azula purses her painted mouth, eyes bored. "You don't look much like my uncle, Katara."

It's a simple, neutral observation.

It sounds like an accusation.

Maybe Katara's just being paranoid.

"I take after my mother." Katara folds her own glossed mouth over the rim of her cup, but doesn't drink. The words come out sounding true, because they are.

"I suppose you should be grateful for that." Azula sips her tea, slowly, with all the quiet precision of a noblewoman. "My uncle was never the handsomest of men."

"He's a good man," Katara pipes up on a bizarre impulse to defend General Iroh. He _is_ a good man—for a Fire Nation noble, she silently amends.

"One has nothing to do with the other." Azula arches a brow in what might be amusement. Or disdain. "In any case, 'goodness' is relative."

"So is beauty," Katara clips, scanning the empty, sunny space with dull eyes. Azula dismissed the servants a good fifteen minutes ago.

Azula turns down her chin in acknowledgement. "You have a point there…cousin." The word 'cousin' falls from the princess's mouth like a heavy stone into a still pond. Away from her father, she is much—harder? Sharper? _Something_ fundamental has shifted.

Katara's fingers twitch. "Thank you…cousin."

Soft footsteps echo down the hall leading to the tearoom. Katara cranes her neck around, expecting it to be a servant come to freshen their tea.

But, no, it's Katara's other…"cousin" who pushes open the door. His typically hard face is soft with something resembling uncertainty. Katara remembers his arm tucked around her waist.

Zuko bows his head shallowly at Katara. Hesitantly, she returns the gesture.

Zuko opens his mouth to speak, but Azula cuts him off. "Now, Katara, you're an illegitimate child, and Zuzu is the Crown Prince. Bow deeper to him." _Zuzu?_ The stupid nickname doesn't really register, because Azula's voice is thick with something like glee.

Katara's mouth goes sticky and dry. Her eyes bounce back and forth between the royal siblings. She sets the cup down, slowly, and remembers the fortuneteller's warning about tea.

"Azula," Zuko says, voice tight, "stop it. Now."

"I'm simply teaching our _cousin_ proper protocol." Katara flinches when she feels a lacquered nail skitter down her cheek. Azula has scooted closer, having crawled around the low table between them—and she's caressing Katara's face.

The Waterbender's stomach turns over.

"Azula—"

Those light fingers turn into claws, claws that wrap around Katara's neck and _shove _her down, bending her spine, smashing the side of her face into the floor. Katara cries out, bucks against the princess's hold, but, damn, Azula is _strong_.

"Azula!" Zuko sounds appalled, horrified, but not surprised. "Get _off _of her!"

"Oh, but…" Azula's forearm presses into Katara's back, grinding her ribcage into the floor, and Katara _can't breathe_. "Where's the fun in that?"

"This isn't a game!" If he's so angry, why isn't he _doing_ anything? Why isn't he wrenching his crazy sister away from Katara?

Tears well, sting. "Let me _go_!"

"I'm teaching our cousin manners. She needs to learn to humble herself." A tender wipe of fingers along the side of Katara's face.

Katara's throat vibrates on a shriek. Her back feels twisted, and if Azula grinds her face any harder into the floor, her cheekbone will shatter.

The air crackles with heat, and out of the corner of her good eye, Katara sees a flare of orange. "Let her go, Azula!"

Azula, for her part, seems to be unphased. "Oh, if you _must _ruin my fun." She lifts her body away from Katara's, and suddenly, the Waterbender can breathe.

She chokes, rocks to her feet, and digs her fingers into her carefully styled hair. She unwinds the topknot, shakes out her hair, and chucks the headpiece at Azula's booted feet.

"I will _never_ bow. Not to you. Not to your damn brother." _Not to your monster of a father_.

Then she's backing out of the room, eyes full of disdain as they trace along the dainty furnishings, the carefully curled gold fixtures. She looks into Zuko's ruined face with something like disappointment. He stands straighter, works his hands against his belt.

"You should learn respect, Tara." The nickname curls into the air, curdles Katara's blood. "And suffering is the best teacher."

Zuko actually _gasps_ when Azula says this.

"You don't _deserve_ my respect." Katara swore to herself that she wouldn't mind making enemies, but she thinks Azula isn't the wisest enemy to make.

Of course, maybe animosity was what the princess wanted all along.

Katara whirls out of the room before either of the royal siblings can get another word in.

* * *

KATARA DOESN'T KNOW where her "quarters" are, so she just paces down the maze of hallways until she finds a door. She finds a door, she slams it open, and gulps in lungful's of air.

Late afternoon sunlight weighs down on her skin through her qipao. At least the headache-inducing topknot is gone, leaving her hair to bristle in a great brown cloud around her head.

Katara walks, and walks, swinging out with her arms, fingers slapping at bunches of exotic flowers and thick plants, and doesn't stop until she reaches a tiny little pond cupped in a small dip in the landscape. She stops, and collapses, limbs folding in on themselves.

_Mother, Father, Sokka, I'm so sorry for letting them shame me like this._

She absolutely _despises_ the face she sees in the water. She despises how pale it has gone with stress and fear. She's repulsed by the paint that coats her face and renders her unrecognizable. If Sokka saw her now, would he even know her? Why should he, when he doesn't know herself?

Damn it.

Katara plunges her fingers into the water, destroying her smooth reflection, and comes back with filled palms. She splashes the water onto her face, scrubs; scrubs so hard that she can feel her skin peeling off in thin layers. She scrubs until the paint starts to fade, until she can feel her skin go light now that it's free of its artificial burden. Her face is so soaked that she can't tell if she's crying.

The memory of Azula's clawed hands is imprinted on her back, on her neck and cheek. Katara feels filthy, even though she's scrubbed herself clean.

_Damn_ it.

Katara's hands fall away from her face, land in her lap. Maybe that stupid fortuneteller—Wu—was right about staying away from tea. If taking tea with a member of the royal family always leads to such humiliation, Katara should stay away from it.

She folds her legs, stares dully into the pond. Fronds sway under the surface, and tiny little fish skitter in and out of the vegetation. She probably frightened them when she dipped her hands into the water.

Speaking of water—her face is soaked, and fat droplets plop into her lap in an unsteady rhythm. Plunk. Plunk. _Plunk_.

Without really thinking, she flexes her fingers, draws the coating of water off with the force of her bending. She flicks her wrists and sends the water back into the pond, watching the pond's surface ripple on impact.

"You're a bender."

Katara seizes up, and that earlier numbness returns.

"You're…you're a Waterbender." Prince Zuko circles into view; his face slack with shock, his eyes pinched with accusation. "You're a Waterbender, and you never told us."

Katara's tongue darts out to slick over her bottom lip.

"Not so loud," she rasps, and feels compelled to tack on, "please."

He angles his head, squints at her out of his ruined eye. "You're an Agni damned Waterbender, and you thought you could hide that from members of the royal family."

"The Waterbenders in my tribe were killed or imprisoned by the royal family."

"By our soldiers—"

"By _order of the royal family._" Her heart thrums against her chest. Her meeting with Ozai was a false alarm. _Now_ she is going to die.

"No—no." Zuko shakes his head, and he's moving so fast that she doesn't have time to scramble away. He's kneeling beside her, sitting on his heels, and squinting into your face. "You should have told us the truth from the start. You aren't _just_ a Waterbender; you're a member of the royal family—"

"So you believe me now?"

He doesn't answer, though his nostrils flare. "No harm will come to you, though it would have _very much_ worked in your favor if you'd let us know from the get-go."

Katara doesn't say anything.

"If anything…" Zuko runs his palm over his scalp, fiddles with his crown. "If anything, my father will value a new sort of weapon."

"I'm not a weapon." Lie. She is a weapon, but she will not be wielded by anyone else.

"What else are you hiding, girl? Are you an _Airbender_ too?" He snorts out a laugh.

Katara's eyes roll up into her head. "You're hilarious."

His fingers graze her cheek, and she flinches.

"I'm not Azula." His ruined face twists with something like insult. "She's cruel."

"So are you."

"Little girl, after my uncle, I'm the kindest member of this family."

Is it bad that she believes him?

"Come on." He tugs on her damp hand, finger grazing her knuckles. "The servants have worked themselves into a tizzy looking for you. You should relax in your rooms before tonight's dinner."

"_Dinner_?"

"I believe you're familiar with the concept of evening meals?"

Katara's lip curls, and she contemplates biting his face.

Instead, she lets the contact of his hand on hers loosen her spine, and she folds into him, face coming to rest against his shoulder, body angled into his. She shudders, sighs, and goes slack.

He's warm, but it isn't quite as repulsive as Ozai's heat.

Zuko sits very, very still, so still and tense that she thinks he's preparing to shove her away, but he doesn't. He cups her upper arms in his hands and pulls her closer on something like a hug, but not quite.

"I'm familiar with the concept, yes." Her face is starting to sting from the punishment she put it through. The sun doesn't feel quite so strong on her back. It must be setting. Has it only been a day? Less than a day? It's been less than a day, and she shouldn't be leaning on Zuko like this, shouldn't be this close to him. She doesn't like him; she _knows_ that he doesn't like her. But she's just so tired. So, so tired.

"Uh…" He pats her back, an unsteady motion that morphs into soothing little circles. "Good. That's. Good."

Katara has never been consumed by fire. But if she continues to let herself use Zuko as a crutch, she very well might be.


	8. Dead Man's Coat

**A/N:** Hello, hello! Thank you to everyone who has left their kind words and input; you don't know how much your thoughts mean to me. As I worked hard on this chapter, I'd love to hear your thoughts again C= I really love hearing from you all; nothing makes me happier than your insightful reviews. All the same, thank you all so much for sticking with me and this story so far.

In this chapter, Katara's relationship with Zuko takes another slight turn. I hope I'm doing a decent job of showing the evolution of their relationship. It's a bit tricky. Speaking of which, I've decided that "Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence" by Ryuichi Sakamoto serves as their "love theme" for the purposes of this story.

This chapter is dedicated to Yin of YinYangSisters, simply because I adore her.

That's enough of the obligatory annoying author's note, onto the story.

* * *

_Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet._

- Vietnamese Proverb

* * *

"MY BROTHER USED to comb my hair," Katara says, feeling that familiar tug, the occasional yank as the comb's teeth catch on a snarl. This is a rhythm she can fall into no matter where she is. Never mind that these hands are far more brusque than Sokka's ever where. Never mind that the fingers that occasionally brush the nape of her neck are far too hot. If she closes her eyes and thinks hard enough, she can pretend.

The only response she receives is a grunt, but she supposes that it's better than pure silence. Besides which, if he doesn't say anything, that will add to the illusion that her brother is here with her.

"He used to comb it every morning," Katara goes on, tapping her heels together, watching the sun set through her bedroom's window—well, it isn't really _her_ bedroom, just the space she is to occupy. "Even when I didn't want him to. Sometimes I got impatient and pulled away before he was finished, and wound up with chunks of hair being pulled out of my scalp."

A snort; she isn't sure if it's one of amusement or derision. Or both. Still, her companion says nothing.

She taps her ragged nails, quietly stunned at how relaxed she feels. _Almost_ relaxed. Her spine never loosens completely, her heart never regains its normal beat, and she doubts she'll ever relax until _that man's_ blood coats her fingers. But, in this instant, with the bone comb rippling through her hair and the sun touching the horizon, she's almost content.

"I take it you miss him?" Katara jumps, because she was entrenched in the silence to the point where she felt as if she was talking to herself. But now her companion is speaking quietly, focusing on a piece of hair that won't unknot, grumbling to himself. "The two of you seemed, uh, close."

Katara nods, figuring that it would be pointless to deny that one vulnerability. He was there. He saw the way she clung to Sokka, burrowing against her brother like she was seeking to merge their skin.

"He was all I had, for the longest time."

He moves on to another section of hair, knuckles grazing her skin. "And yet, you left him for a nation not your own."

Her fingers curl against her thighs, one by one. "I don't expect you to understand."

"From what I can gather…" He reaches around and drops the comb into her lap, then proceeds to work her hair back into a topknot. "…You left your brother in a struggling village and sailed off to the lap of luxury." There is contempt in his voice; she can practically hear the sneer. "I suppose your sense of greed is stronger than your loyalty."

_And here I thought we were starting to get along_. "What does the Fire Nation Prince know of loyalty?" She swivels around, hand raised as if to strike him. He catches her hand before it meets his cheek, of course he does, and she's not even certain if she _meant_ to hit him. His thumb slides along her palm, and she jolts.

His face is contorted with anger and disdain, but his touch remains soft. "A tribe as primitive as yours could _never_ understand Fire Nation standards of honor and loyalty."

Katara lets her fingernails bite at the back of his hand, and he doesn't even flinch. He must be used to pain. "Oh, you're right about that, Prince. Our standards are far higher than yours."

Zuko's eyes flare, and he drops her hand. His mouth works, twists into a frown—but then he snorts, and scoots farther up the bed. "I'm too tired to bicker with you, girl."

"_Katara_." She lets it go, because she doesn't want to linger on this topic. She slips off the bed and sets the comb down on the elaborate dresser they gave her. Her hair is back in its topknot, but at least any trace of makeup has been scrubbed into oblivion. She pauses in thought. Frowning to herself, Katara presses her thumbs to either side of her mouth and stretches her skin until it goes tight. She pinches her cheeks, and they sting and turn red.

"What," Zuko calls over to her, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and letting them land with a _clunk_, "are you doing? _Katara_."

"Was I expected to, uh, wear makeup to—to dinner?" She slaps her cheeks with the heels of her palms, watching her dark skin flare up an even brighter shade of red.

"Did the attendants put makeup on you?"

"You _saw_ my face. Yes, they did."

"Then you were expected to wear makeup to dinner."

Katara gulps. "Oh."

"It isn't that important." She sees his reflection wave it off. In the mirror, his scar is on the wrong side of his face. He must always see it like that, but to her, it's rather bizarre. "It's just makeup. You're too pretty for it, anyway."

All her breath rattles out of her chest. "What did you just say?"

He flushes, bares his teeth at her. "I'm not allowed to compliment you?"

Katara flips around and rests her palms on the dresser. She counts to five before she speaks. "Ah, no, I mean, yes—I mean, I just wasn't, uh, expecting it." Nor was she expecting the dizziness that has now permeated brain and body. Prince Zuko…just called her _pretty_.

She struggles to compose herself, and is grateful for the fact that Zuko looks just as discomfited as she feels. "It's just, um, you're the first person aside from one of my family members to tell me that—" She catches herself, and the dizziness only ratchets up in intensity, because she needs to train herself, damn it, she needs to not make tiny mistakes that will put cracks in her walls.

"But I _am_ a member of your family." He's getting closer, too close, so close that his belly grazes hers. Katara jams her back into the dresser, and then there's nowhere else to go. Hell, he never has any regard for her personal space, does he? "Am I not, _Katara_?"

"In blood." Her tongue touches her bottom lip. "In blood, yes."

He rests his palm on her cheek, rubbing tiny circles until the self-inflected sting fades. She thinks she feels his skin heat up. Is he using his bending to…to soothe her? That isn't right. Firebending is all destruction. Water soothes. Fire destroys. That is what she grew up being told, that is what she grew up believing.

His fingers are caught in her hair; his hot palm rests on her cheek, though it's gone still. Katara squirms in place, because she doesn't quite know what to do with this Zuko. The Zuko who shoved fire under her eyes, the Zuko who slammed her into a cold metal wall—yes, she knows how to react to him. But the Zuko who held her up when she met Ozai, the Zuko who hugged her by the pond, the one who told her she was too pretty for makeup—no, she doesn't know what to do with this Zuko, not at all. And it makes her stomach jump up into her throat.

"I'm sorry. For questioning your loyalty to your brother. Blood is…blood is strong."

"Apology accepted." Katara holds onto his wrist, uncertain if she wants to force him away or tug him closer.

"Since he's not here, I'll, uh, comb your hair for you." He tucks her hair behind her ear and lets her go, backing away so she can finally _breathe_.

"Are we friends now?" she asks before she can stop herself, fiddling with the fasteners of her qipao. She still doesn't like him, but he and his uncle are all she has here.

"I…I'd call us something closer to siblings." Zuko ducks his head to her before sidling out of the room. "A servant will fetch you for dinner."

Katara hops onto the dresser, the heat of Zuko's hand lingering on her skin.

"Siblings. Hm."

* * *

KATARA IS LATE to dinner.

Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, then twenty five, and that servant never arrives. At first, Katara passes the time by watching the streaks of sunlight that come in through a high window stretch out with the setting sun. The sun here is so very different than the pale polar disc she knew back home. It's richer, fatter, and closer to the earth, sending out waves of heat that reach her even through the palace's insulating walls. There's no escaping the sun in this land, even on the verge of nighttime.

After ten minutes of bobbing her feet and watching the streaks of sunlight shift in hue as the sun falls farther and farther below the horizon, Katara hops to her feet, qipao snagging on the dresser as she goes. With an impatient grunt, she yanks the section of fabric free, wincing as it tears. There is now a gash on the fabric right over her left hip, and Katara is torn between petty satisfaction _(look at me ruining the dress you forced me into_) and fear (_it came from the palace, so it belongs to the Fire Lord, and how would Fire Lord Ozai feel about me damaging his property?_).

For now, she settles on petty satisfaction, because it warms her in a way that the fading sunlight cannot ever hope to, and tracks a circle around the suite, fingering the ragged slit in her dress. The fixtures and furnishings in here are rich, but there's also something delicate about them; the reds are a little paler and closer to pink; the golds are soft; and the couches are thin, their legs spindly and carved with curlicues that bring to mind swaying plants and flower buds.

Yes, this room is "feminine". It was clearly furnished with a woman in mind—a lady, that is, with all the proper inclinations towards pretty, useless things. Something about that concept sticks in Katara's craw.

She wouldn't call herself "tomboyish", but she's never been one to bow to the more formal ideas of what constitutes _masculine_ and _feminine_. Granted, the Southern Water Tribe's concept of gender roles was decidedly looser than its Northern sister, or so she garnered from the talk of travelers.

Besides which, Katara has molded herself into the role of a warrior, and she has no time for the perfumes laid out on her dresser or the fragile pink couches that are bunched in a knot by one of the bigger windows.

But—but, though she is a warrior (a wannabe warrior), isn't masquerading as the Fire Nation's idea of a_ lady_ a requirement if she wishes to achieve her goal? Azula herself seems more of a warrior princess than a delicate thing to be pampered and coddled—can Katara be like that, too? Though she reviles Azula already, she cannot help but envy her—to be that beautiful and toxic at once must be heady.

Katara rubs the heel of her pam over her forehead, frowning as a headache builds. And where _is_ that servant?

She jams her toe against one of the couches' legs and hisses, peering down at the offending object. Oh…this couch is different, wider and sturdier than the other three, encased in a deeper red material, a rusty shade that makes her think of old blood. She kneels and runs her fingers over its sides; there are gashes, wider than the one at her hip, deeper, as though bitten into the fabric by an idle dagger.

Swiveling to one side, Katara inspects the room more carefully, taking in more hints of masculinity scattered about all the deliberately ladylike furnishings. A pair of swords mounted on the wall, as silver as if they'd just been recently polished; a heavy table with a map unfurled across its surface.

When Katara digs through a wardrobe on impulse to discover _more_, she finds a heavy coat shoved into the very back, and skates her fingers over the frog fasteners. It is a dull red to match the one couch, and it weighs heavy in her arms when she yanks it from the embrace of all the silk kimonos, cotton sarongs, and elaborately stitched qipaos. She presses her nose to it and catches a whiff of a person's scent underneath the heavy musk of age. She rears back, grimacing when a cloud of that dust works its way up her nostril, and sneezes all over the coat.

"Uh…sorry," she says to the coat's former owner, wherever they may be, and swipes a trail of snot off the high collar. She stands by the open wardrobe, the coat trailing along the floor, as she processes the fact that this room was once occupied by someone else—a man, likely as not. A man who passed the idle hours by slashing careful lines across expensive furniture. A warrior, maybe, if the swords and map are any indication.

Now that she thinks about it, this coat might have been a part of a military uniform.

Cold works its way up the back of her neck, settling in the crown of her head and dripping down across her face as her skin drains of color.

A soldier, like the man who murdered her parents.

Katara drops the coat and jams the heels of her feet down onto the richly tailored fabric of it. This is silly, of course, there is no way that that murderer was important enough to garner a suite of rooms right next to General Iroh's—but her hatred is too blind, too all-encompassing, and it feels _good_ to take it out on something, even if that something is a dusty coat with faded cuffs and a frog fastener that's coming loose.

She pauses, drops down to her backside, and gives the coat one last good kick, rumpling it into a heap. Well, she knows it can't belong to the man who murdered her parents, so whose is it? Someone important, clearly, perhaps a member of the royal family? She blanches as it hits her. This room…belonged to someone who must now be _dead_, if _she _was free to move into it. She stiffens, going even paler. She has never met a Spirit, but her grandmother told her enough stories of blue-clawed monsters and death-white ghosts for her to _believe_ in them, at least in a visceral corner of her brain.

"They put me in a dead man's room," Katara mumbles with dry lips. She claws up the coat with shaking fingers and stuffs it into the very back of the wardrobe, layering dresses over it until not even a peep of rust-red can be seen.

"Is this an insult?" she asks aloud, sliding the wardrobe back shut, wobbling to her feet. "Put the bastard in a dead man's room?" And where, for La's sake, is that servant? She abruptly wants to get out of here, no matter that the outside means stares and sneers and the tottering sense that, one way or another, she will be found out and condemned.

If she's late to dinner, then what? Will it be perceived as an insult? She knows it would be in the Water Tribe; granted, no one in the Water Tribe was even as remotely frightening or tyrannical as Fire Lord Ozai.

Fine…fine, then! She'll just find her way to the dining hall on her own. She'll probably be able to snag a passing servant or guardsman—this place is _swarming_ with people who aren't even distantly related to the royal family, from what she can see—and ask them to escort her. She _is_ their Prince's supposed daughter, illegitimate or not. To deny her assistance would be to deny Iroh by proxy.

Wiping her hands on her qipao as she goes, Katara sidles out of the room and breathes audibly when the door swings shut behind her. The more space between her and that coat, the better.

She is being wholly _ridiculous_.

Katara sets a deliberate pace down the broad hallway, keeping her chin tipped up imperiously and putting ice in her eyes. It's easy to look cold when you have eyes as blue as hers. It makes her wonder how warm-eyed people like Azula and Zuko manage to look so icy around the irises.

Drawing her back into a straight line, she walks faster, turning corner after corner, stumbling over snags in the carpet more often than she'd like to admit. Whenever she hears approaching footsteps and increases her pace, she's always disappointed by another empty hall that stretches onto forever.

_What is this, a castle full of ghosts?_

_Bad thought, bad thought. _

Swearing under her breath, Katara slams the side of her fist into the wall and swings around another corner. She pauses, because this hall is different, wider, darker, lit by a stingy amount of torches. She tips her head up to the soaring ceiling, before tilting it to one side and taking in the left wall.

Ah. A hall of portraits. Fire Lords, she would bet, going by their elaborate robes, formal hairstyles, and crowns of spiking gold.

Katara traces her fingers underneath the nearest and newest looking portrait. Ozai's painted likeness is flat and free of that eerie _something_ that made gooseflesh rise on the nape of her neck.

A belated thought bubbles up as she swivels her eyes down the hall to survey the rest of the portraits. _If Iroh's older, why is _Ozai _the Fire Lord?_

Maybe…maybe because Iroh has no heir—and Katara, herself, offers no real threat as a supposed bastard. She cannot think of any other explanation for why the first born would be passed over for the second son who's a good twenty years younger. The Fire Nation has that much in common with the Water Tribe: extra value placed on the first born, _especially_ if the first born is a son.

Or maybe not. Ozai has been placed as the Fire Lord over Iroh, and Katara _swore _she sensed favoritism towards Azula and indifference towards Zuko. Maybe the Fire Nation actually favors potential sociopaths over first borns.

Katara snorts as she pauses by a portrait that's so old and faded as to be virtually colorless. _I wouldn't be surprised if that were true_.

"Surveying your recently acquired ancestors, I see."

Katara congratulates herself on holding back a yelp, and swivels around, smoothing her face free of the fear and hostility.

"Princess Azula."

"Lady Katara." Azula bows, albeit shallowly, and Katara returns the gesture, taking the little bit of movement Azula made and making it deeper.

_Know your place_.

"I'm a lady now, am I?" She's almost accustomed to the title, because Iroh insisted that the entirety of Zuko's crew call her by that it. But hearing it from Azula? That is not something she could have pictured.

"You_ are_ my uncle's daughter." Azula's mouth purses and she angles her hand out on a dismissive gesture. She is so very nonchalant, for the girl who just very recently forced Katara into a painful bow.

"Yes…that I am."

"And so a lady you are, though not so respectable as a princess." Azula trails closer, hips rolling languidly, eyes distantly amused, as though at some private joke. "You_ could _have been a princess, were the circumstances of birth and bloodline different."

Katara stares hard over the top of Azula's head, at a portrait of a Fire Lord who looks almost kind. Either his eyes were very large in life, or the court painter was slightly off in his proportions.

"Lucky for you that you aren't a true princess, dear cousin, or you might pose an actual threat." Azula presses the backs of her fingers against her mouth and chuckles. "A Waterbending Fire Lord—rather hysterical, don't you think?"

Ah, so Zuko told. Of course he did. Katara shouldn't have placed anything like faith in him, but she had anyway, a tentative little hope. She shouldn't feel so betrayed, but she does.

Instead of outwardly cursing him, Katara blurts, "There can be female Fire Lords?" So far, she hasn't seen a painted likeness with breasts attached to it.

"In theory, yes." Azula picks a thread off her tunic and assumes a bored expression. "There's never been one, but there is no law against a woman ascending the throne." And her eyes glint when she says that.

Oh, brilliant. If Katara has landed herself in the middle of a sibling rivalry for the throne, she will gouge her own eyes out.

"No need for aspirations, now." Azula ticks up one finger and rocks it from side to side, as though chastising a child. "My uncle had _one_ child who could have bid for the throne, and you aren't him."

"Who?" Katara asks, her chest tightening up with inevitability. The portrait of the kind Fire Lord is starting to blur, so she swings her eyes back down to Azula.

"You don't know, Lady Tara?" There's that grating nickname again. Azula's mouth pops open on an _O_ of dismay. "Your dear, deceased half-brother Lu Ten. I would have thought Uncle told you, considering that he moved you into Lu Ten's old suite."

_Oh_. Oh. Katara reaches out blindly, fingers clawing at the edge of a portrait, seeking purchase. This revelation should not shock her so; it should not chill her blood in this way. Is this affliction's source the red coat she cradled in her arms not half an hour ago?

The red coat she _stomped on _like a madman with a war prize.

"It's a shame, really, that you weren't around to meet him, or at _least_ watch him on the funeral pyre. He would have liked you, I think."

Katara nods mechanically. "I'm sure…I'm sure I would have valued my…brother's company."

"Mm." A loose shrug. "Shame. Ah, but we've moved off topic. I was just about to come fetch you to dinner."

"Z—Prince Zuko said a servant would come to escort me—"

"Ah, yes, I know." Before Katara can flinch away, Azula has pounced, threading their arms together and steering the other girl down the hallway. "I insisted that I wanted to escort you. My apologies if I was a bit late."

Katara grunts wordlessly and tries not to writhe out of the other girl's grip.

"You interest me, cousin. You see, I'm a Firebender, like my brother—well." A deprecating chuckle. "Not _quite_ like my brother."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Katara bites her own tongue. Speaking out of turn might earn her another face full of floor.

_If she tries anything again, then I'll fight back. I won't be bullied. Not by _this_ bitch_.

"I'm better than he is," Azula says bluntly, tapping her nails against Katara's wrist. "Sparring with him is more of a chore than a privilege. Sparring with _anyone_ has become a bore these days." She's actually _pouting_. "I've never fought with a Waterbender, you see."

Another grunt, because what is she supposed to say? But she swears there's a new almost-respect in Azula's tone, one that definitely wasn't there during their earlier confrontation.

"Are you well trained?"

"No," Katara admits honestly. Weakness might work in her favor, at least in regards to her bending.

"Pity. Still, I'm sure our instructors can translate Firebending techniques over to Waterbending."

"_Instructors_?"

Azula disregards Katara's squeak. "And, no matter how untrained you are, a new form of combatant would be welcome, by all means."

"And your father is okay with—?"

"He's intrigued, as I am. He did mention that it's rather a shame you aren't a Firebender. Your Waterbending will only elevate your status as a freak amongst the courtiers."

Katara's face pinches. Hmph.

Azula pauses and swings around to cup Katara's shoulders. Her pretty face has crumpled with a feverish enthusiasm, and the frantic look that lurks in the corners of her eyes frightens Katara more than any earlier glances of cold hostility or distant amusement.

"Use that against them, cousin. Use your status as a supposed freak to frighten those beneath you. Show them their place. Train with me and my brother, Tara dear. I promise you won't be bored."

Katara, still reeling from the fact that she's been placed in a dead prince's room, caught off guard by this show of borderline camaraderie, can only nod mutely.

Azula looks as satisfied as a carnivore with a half-dead treat.

"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me." Azula tucks a lock of hair behind Katara's ear, but the gesture carries none of the borderline tenderness that Zuko's had. "Now, let's hurry off to dinner before Father becomes displeased."

Katara gulps.

* * *

"RISE AND SHINE, sleeping beauty!"

This boisterous order is punctuated by every last layer of Katara's blankets being torn away from her body, ripping her out of subconscious and hurtling into the cold morning light.

"_Mmph_!" The groggy Waterbender grumbles out a protest and yanks a pillow over her head, anything to stave off the white spears of sunlight that threaten the cracks between her eyelids.

"Daughter, I have prepared you a pot of tea myself. I noticed that you hardly ate a thing last night."

_Because my stomach was too full of nausea, courtesy of your niece, your brother, and your dead son's coat_.

Reluctantly, Katara slides the pillow off her face and rolls onto her side, blinking muzzily at the bustling general. A tray of fragrant tea and pastries rests on a low table; steam curls through the air and tempts her tongue and nostrils.

Huffing to herself, Katara scrambles out of bed, taking a sheet with her and wrapping it around her shoulders, and toddles over to Iroh's side, scowling hard at the florally patterned teapot.

"You have a long day ahead of you, dearest."

Katara grunts out something that sounds a bit like, "_Do I_?"

"Indeed." Humming, Iroh coaxes Katara to sit and plops down with a flourish opposite her. Katara focuses on picking sleep out of her eyes as Iroh pours an amber stream of tea into a cup and shoves it across the table at her. "My niece informed me that you expressed interest in taking formal lessons with her and Prince Zuko. I must say, while I have studied Waterbending masters in the course of my travels and learned to apply their techniques to my own bending, I never thought to reverse the practice. Ah, well, I'm certain you will learn _something_."

Katara swallows a mouthful of tea after swishing it from one cheek to the other, and sets the cup down. The tea is a little bitter, but she feels at least somewhat more alert for having drunk it.

"That's starting today?" she squeaks. She should be thankful for a distraction from the monotony that will stretch from now until the time she can form a solid plan for hunting down her parents' murderer. But does she _really_ want to be cornered by a group of Firebenders, no matter that they're supposedly benign (if you can apply such a word to Princess Azula)?

"Yes, of course." A grizzled pair of eyebrows climb Iroh's forehead, and he sits back, resting his palms on his knees. "I will be busy for the next few days, but I thought I might offer to train you every so often myself, if that's all right?"

Well, now, _that_ doesn't sound so bad. Katara nods mutely and picks at a pastry, peeling off a crusty layer of it and plopping it onto her tongue.

Iroh claps his hands together, beaming, and he looks genuinely pleased. "Excellent! I do look forward to working with a Waterbender."

Katara smiles; it is a tiny thing, but it is genuine, and Iroh's face softens when he sees it.

But then, with a voice that has bubbled up from the very depths of her stomach, Katara asks, "I—Father, is it true that this room once belonged to…to your son?"

Iroh visibly deflates, and Katara silently curses her impulsiveness. She knows what it is to grieve years after the fact. Was Lu Ten murdered, too? Did he die in battle? From sickness? No matter, grief is grief, and she should have known better.

But then the old man's smile returns, though smaller and sadder. "Indeed it did. Why do you ask, daughter? Did a servant tell you? I suppose I should have told you myself, but I did not think to."

Katara shakes her head, combing unsteady fingers through her sleep-wild hair. "Well, see, I found a coat in the dresser, a man's coat, and then Az—Princess Azula happened to mention who this room once belonged to, and—"

"Coat?" A confused frown bunches up the skin on Iroh's forehead. "I could have sworn this room was cleared of my son's articles of clothing…"

Katara gulps. "Well…well, it wasn't."

"Odd." A deeper frown forms, soon smoothed over by a serene smile. "It matters not. Come, daughter, dress yourself in a pair of trousers and a tunic; training always starts bright and early."

"I'm not a morning person," Katara states, moving over to a wardrobe—_not_ the one she found the coat in—and digging around for semi-practical clothes.

"You will get used to it, I think." Iroh starts to sidle out of the room, tray in hand, only to hesitate. "Daughter…"

"Yes—Father?"

"Leave the coat you found on the bed before you leave. I'd like to…to keep it, if you don't mind."

"Ah—of course."

"Thank you, dearest." He exits with a benevolent smile.

Katara doesn't want to touch the coat that shouldn't be in her wardrobe (_shouldn't be_ if what Iroh says is true) but she does, pinching it between shaking fingers and tossing it onto the bed with all the enthusiasm of someone ridding themselves of the burden of a diseased corpse.

Tying off the crimson tunic's sash, Katara trots out of the room as if Lu Ten's ghost itself is on her heels.


	9. Lessons In Restraint

**Title:** House of the Rising Sun  
**Status:** Chaptered, in progress.  
**Pairing:** Katara/Zuko  
**Rating:** Teen

**Chapter Title:** Lessons In Restraint

**Notes: **Thanks to Socks for looking this over. Thanks to my readers for their patience and their feedback—I love you all so much. Leave more feedback on this chapter if you're so inclined, as it helps me improve (=

In the next chapter, we're going to delve more deeply into the circumstances that lead to the murder of Katara's parents—and quite a few other things, but I don't want to give too much away.

How action scene do.

* * *

"YOU'RE WEARING YOUR hair in a braid again," Prince Zuko says, and Katara wrinkles her nose because the last thing she expected to hear upon stumbling her way into the courtyard was commentary on her _hairstyle_.

"Well, this is going to involve physical activity, right?" Katara fiddles self-consciously with her braid (damn him to the depths of the Spirit World for making her second-guess herself over something as vain as the way she wears her hair), her other hand dropping to loop around the dull gold sash at her waist. "I mean, I have a lot of hair, and it'll just get in the way if I leave it loose."

Zuko rocks back on his heels and folds his arms over his broad chest. "Stunningly pragmatic of you."

"Hey!" Katara flares up and stomps closer to him, the hand that was wrapped around her braid flying up to tap Zuko's chest. "I grew up a _peasant_ on the _tundra_. If either of us is familiar with the concept of pragmatism, it's _me_!"

Zuko coughs and rears back, neck snapping into a rigid line. His mouth works like he wants to say something, but can't figure out how to form the words on his tongue. The coil of his hair sifts in the breeze, and Katara finds herself speculating for the umpteenth time what he would look like with a full head of hair to go with that tail. Handsomer, though he's already handsome, in a way. Much handsomer, maybe a little less scary (he doesn't scare her).

Katara pinches the inside of her elbow in hopes that the brief bite of pain will knock her thoughts out of dangerous territory. She needs to stop making a tentative study of his face, needs to stop taking apart the planes of it and piecing them back together as she struggles to place him into a solid category.

That's the thing, though. Prince Zuko doesn't fit into a neat box; he is neither truly ugly nor truly handsome. Every piece of his face that isn't marred by his scar is a study in the talents of nature, all fair, clear skin and finely carved bones. But that scar twists one side of his otherwise pretty face into a perpetual glower (the unscarred half usually matches, though, what with his ever-present scowl); it is mottled red and painful pink, grooves and ridges carving their way across his skin and rendering his face into one that only a mother could love. At least, that's how it _should_ work.

And the more time she spends with him, the more Katara comes to see that the paradox extends beneath his skin. Prince Zuko is someone who would call a girl two years younger than him a filthy peasant and cast sneering skepticism upon her motives. Yet he possesses a strange brand of chivalry, that is, if the occasional attentiveness directed towards Katara is any indication. He attempted to teach her self-defense, he held her by that pond, he combed her hair.

He _confuses_ her in a way no one else ever has, not even General Iroh. At least she's yet to catch herself lingering five seconds too long on the curve of _the old general's_ cheekbone.

"What are you staring at?" Zuko barks, nostrils flaring, palm flipping up to ghost over the edge of his scar, a reflexive movement, and Katara slumps because she does not want him to think that she—that she would stare at his scar like it's a shameful thing.

_How he feels shouldn't matter_.

But she's not _that_ cruel.

"I was staring?" Katara goggles and takes an automatic step backwards, eager to put cushions of space between them, though he's made no move to touch her.

Zuko's good eye narrows down to a slit to match his scarred one. "You aren't _that_ stupid, Katara."

What's she supposed to say? _I was trying to figure you out? I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that I think you're handsome, and I don't know what to do with that, or what it means? _

No, no, any of the above would spell_ disaster_ more clearly than finely constructed strokes of calligraphy. Katara angles her face around and focuses on a stack of crates that look like they're about to tip end over end. Her braid sways along her back in the steady breeze that smells of perfume-heavy flowers.

"I'm still tired," she says, quietly, "I guess I'm drifting off without realizing it."

It seems to mollify him, for now at least. "Not a morning person, I'd wager?"

"You don't know the half of it." She turns her face back to his and smiles tentatively. "I take it you _are_ a morning person?" Zuko doesn't seem the type to cherish _any_ time of the day, but she keeps that observation to herself.

If the borderline friendly expression on her face caught him off guard, he doesn't show it. But he rubs his palm over his scalp and scuffs his feet on the butter-yellow stones that pave the courtyard as he says, "I'm a Firebender. I…rise with the sun."

Poetic of him—who knew that Zuko had poetry in him, even if it's unintentional poetry? "I guess that means that—that I rise with the moon?"

His mouth twitches, but the movement smooths out into another one of his frowns before it can become a smile.

What would a real smile look like on his face? _Can_ he smile?

It doesn't matter.

"Yeah. You rise with the moon…I rise with the sun."

The back of Katara's neck prickles, like she's just brushed up against the ghost of another life.

Abruptly, she wants to touch him, slide her hands down his face, over that bumpy scar and that perfect cheekbone alike, down to his shoulders to crumple the informal crimson tunic he's donned. And she's reaching out to do it, she's spreading her fingers to cup his cheeks, to dip her hands inside him and figure out why he's the way he is, why he's all contrast, and why those contrasts tug at something low in her stomach—

Katara _screams_. A horizontal column of fire has just shot between her and Prince Zuko, singing the sash at her waist as it goes. Katara screams again, quieter this time, more a pathetic squeak than anything, as she rocks back on her heels to avoid the deadly spray, arms wheeling in a desperate bid to steady her center of gravity.

Zuko, for his part, looks angry but unsurprised. "You nearly burnt her eyebrows off, Admiral." Katara is surprised by the true respect that threads around the word _Admiral_. Katara isn't sure if she's comforted by that respect or not. If this man has Zuko's respect, he can't be anything like Princess Azula, can he?

The fact that she's using Zuko's standards to form her own opinions is worrisome—she'll need to check that before it becomes a habit.

"If this girl is to train with you and your sister, she risks burning off far more than an eyebrow."

Zuko's wince, the flutter of his fingertips across the very edge of his scar; neither action goes unnoticed by the _girl_ in question. Is that how he got it, then? Training with his sister? Odd; she wants him to know nothing of her past or motivations, but her very teeth ache with curiosity about_ his_ past, Iroh's past, this entire twisted family.

Katara swivels her eyes over to the stout, elderly man striding across the courtyard. His arms are banded behind his ramrod straight back. Tufts of snowy hair graze his eyes and stand out in a chaotic halo around his head. He looks nothing like the distinguished, middle aged, put together teacher Katara pictured. He looks _wild_, really, eyes flickering from side to side, mouth positioned in a cynical slant that projects distaste for this polished world around him.

She might be reading too much into it.

Katara clears her throat, digs her palm into the pulse that has yet to slow. Oh, she's just in the habit of leaving _stellar_ first impressions on these people, isn't she? She just screamed like a little child. The twist of the wild old man's brows suggest that he is thoroughly unimpressed—but unsurprised—by her outburst. _Great._

Zuko's bowing to the man now, and in a rush to cover up her latest misstep, Katara echoes the motion. The man—the Admiral—clicks his tongue dismissively, and the Waterbender straightens drops the bow so swiftly that her elbow collides with Zuko's side.

"_Katara_, for fuck's sake—"

"Vulgarity is a sure sign of a temper that cannot be contained," the Admiral interjects. The short man oozes a disapproval that somehow makes him look a thousand times taller and twenty times more distinguished. "And a wild temper has no hope of containing one's inner fire."

Zuko swallows back what Katara thinks might be another curse. "Yes, Admiral Jeong Jeong."

A name to go with the title. Quite the title, too, but Katara has never heard the name before now. He can't have been there on that day, then. She feels relief and disappointment all at once, and they act as dual weights to sink her stomach into her feet. She'll get _nowhere_ at this rate; she shouldn't feel relieved.

"A Waterbender, are you?" Admiral Jeong Jeong tracks his feet in tight circles across the stone, hands clasped, chin slanted with what could be authority, or disdain.

Finding that her tongue has turned to a block of stone in her mouth (or that her voice wore itself down to nothing courtesy of her earlier scream), Katara nods dumbly. Her fingers weave around her braid on a bid to anchor her to _something_.

"You have little to worry for, then. Your bending is not chaos personified. Even a loss of temper on your part should not be deadly."

_Chaos personified? _That doesn't sound particularly adulating. Are Firebenders not _proud_ of the element they wield?

"However, if you are to train in such close quarters to this boy," Jeong Jeong flicks a wrist in Zuko's general direction, "and his sister, you are to be wary of _their_ tempers. Princess Azula's control of the deadly thing we bend is precise, but there is a first time for everything. You are to keep an eye on them both at all times while we train, is that understood?"

Katara clamps her gaping jaw shut and nods again. A Firebender with an apparent distaste for Firebending…and what_ might_ be a distaste for his royal charges. Things only get more and more surreal by the day in this place, don't they?

"You're trying to frighten her, aren't you, Admiral?" Zuko murmurs. Katara can't be sure, but she _thinks _that he's shuffled just an inch or so closer to her.

"Fear is a very good deterrent to foolishness, in my experience, young man."

"Not much scares this girl, Admiral." He sounds_ admiring_, and the Waterbender feels a stinging blush settle into her cheeks and nose. "Even the things that _do _frighten her do little to keep her in check."

"I can speak for myself, thanks," Katara snaps, finding her voice. The reaction is less so one of insult, more one of self-defense. Zuko's admiring tone makes her stomach melt and go warm, and she _cannot_ have that.

"_Pardon me_ for _praising_ you, little girl."

_Good. Get angry with me and _stay_ that way_. Prince Zuko's kindness comes with a price that she has absolutely no experience with, something that she cannot afford to trade.

"I'd think that you, of all people, would have a modicum of respect for 'little girls', brother." Azula, appearing from seemingly nowhere, glides between the bickering "cousins", manicured hands splayed on her hips, compact body draped in an outfit similar to Katara's.

"She doesn't _want_ my respect, clearly."

Katara cranes her neck and pokes her tongue out at Zuko over Azula's head.

"_Enough_." The barked-out command catches even Princess Azula's attention. "I broke my retirement as a favor to your esteemed uncle, Your Highnesses. I was informed that I would be instructing the best of the best. I did not agree to babysit a group of bickering _children_."

Katara's tongue rolls back into her mouth.

Azula slides her painted nails over her tunic's collar. "Forgive them, Admiral. They lack restraint, you see."

Jeong Jeong tucks his fingers into the wide cuffs of his sleeves. "Lack of restraint is the easiest way to get oneself _killed_."

Azula's mouth twitches at the corners. "Isn't it, though?"

* * *

"HOW AM I expected to train with them, anyway?" The question is posed more introspectively than anything else, but Admiral—_Sifu_, for the course of each lesson—Jeong Jeong provides an answer regardless.

"I believe that _that_ should be sufficient enough?" His square fingers spread, jab at the area to Katara's right. There is a squat fountain, carved into the likeness of a monstrous, fanged sea creature, gurgling out gallons of water by the second.

"That's not what I—" Katara fingers the pouch of water strapped to her side. "I have water—sir. I just meant that I've never fought a Firebender before." _I've never really fought with my Waterbending at all_.

"You will need a bit more than a pouch of water, if you are to spar with the Prince and Princess." The titles are hollow things, pragmatic concessions to a hierarchy that must not mean much to the Admiral, going by his attitude.

"Are they that good?" Katara shuffles on the sidelines, darting a peek at the people she calls her cousins. They have bent their fire into the likeness of daggers, and their wrists collide with increasing fury as the minutes pass.

Well, that is to say, there are copious amounts of fury on Prince Zuko's side, going by the snarls that bubble out of his mouth, the vicious glares that twist his face into true ugliness, the pants of exertion that lift his chest.

Princess Azula comes off as more amused than anything else, pausing every so often to flick a pinky-thin lock of hair from her eyes, mouth quirked with what could be mirth or derision. But her eyes—from what Katara can see at this distance—are two flat coins of cold precision.

"_Good_—that is an objective term in relation to the context of skill. They are both talented, yes, though one might say that the princess possesses stronger wells of _natural_ talent. They call her a prodigy."

_A prodigy. _Yes, Katara can see that, and half-disbelieves what she's seeing. Azula's just about her age, right? How does she move with such precision, then? How do her thin little limbs cut through the air with the grace of a seasoned warrior? How can she flip around her older and _bigger_ brother, slicing her hands around to hold a dagger of blue flame to his unsuspecting throat?

A prodigy, indeed.

"Prince Zuko," Jeong Jeong continues, sliding his thumb over his temple, "is a powerful bender, but he lacks his sister's talents—and restraint."

_A powerful bender_, Katara mouths, watching Zuko slip out of his sister's hold, falling to one side. She fears he might crack his skull on the stone, and she's even stumbling forward to make a hopeless grab for him—only to swallow a gasp and dig in her heels when the boy somehow turns the fall into a graceful surge of movement. His hands are braced on the unforgiving stone, legs spinning out to arc swerving columns of fire into the air.

The fine hairs on Katara's arm quiver and stand up. Graceless and unrestrained in comparison to his sister. But…a powerful bender.

"To wield fire is to wield a curse." Katara glances to the side, takes in Jeong Jeong's stern profile. "I fear that Prince Zuko's inability to control his curse will spell the end of him."

Her stomach ices over. "You speak—you speak quite poorly of your own element."

"An element I never chose, mind you."

"What would you have chosen, then?" It's not her place to ask, but her mouth works ahead of her brain.

"Water."

Katara's mouth twitches in disbelief.

"I have quite the store of admiration for Waterbenders, you see. Water is life. It can be wild and destructive, yes, but it also heals. Fire is all destruction." Jeong Jeong proceeds to fall quiet, only occasionally barking out corrections to the feuding siblings.

Destruction, yes. Destruction in its purest form, devouring everything in its path.

_"I'm the last Waterbender."_

_ "I'm afraid I'll have to take your children, too. You never know when a latent talent for Waterbending might crop up." _

_ "No—that wasn't part of the deal, let them _go_—"_

She swallows phantom ash and blinks sunlight from her eyes, tugged out of the unwelcome void of memory by a breezy voice. "Cousin! Would you like to spar with me, or would you rather not?"

_Would you rather play the coward, like you did that day? _

Katara sways into a shallow bow, the water in her blood beating to the unseen moon's command. "It would be my honor, Princess."

* * *

KATARA IS GRATEFUL for the pragmatism of her hairstyle, because if she'd left it loose to sway across her shoulders, it would have surely been burnt to char by now courtesy of Princess Azula's precise spurts of flame.

She digs in her heels and struggles to piece together what little she knows of the bending arts, chest expanding and contracting with desperate sips of air, ribs aching from the punishment she's put her body through in a matter of minutes. Her body slips to one side,_ just_ dodging a handful of blue fire. Katara might admire the beauty of that pure color, if she weren't so concerned about losing her hair—or some skin, even—to Azula's assault.

Her ice dagger feels heavy as lead in her slick palm.

She reels away from the freshest onslaught, backside grinding into the fountain's lip. It is _right there_, all that water, so why isn't she bending it to her will?

"Now, cousin." The princess flicks her wrists, and the fire that had coated her fingertips flickers out. "You might want to be careful. Even a Waterbender may drown, if she can't so much as stand on her own two feet."

Katara breathes in, sucks down great snatches of air into her lungs. Her eyes dart to the sidelines, take in Jeong Jeong's impassivity and Zuko's strained look. The prince flicks his thumb up, points to his chest. What—

Oh. Chest. Lungs. Breathing. _Firebending comes from the breath_. Take her breath.

She drops her ice dagger.

"I can stand on my own two feet just fine." Katara inhales, angles her arms back and away from her body. Behind her back, her fingers shudder and spread. She feels the pulse of her chi, feels it center low in her body, ready to break open that intimate, integral part of her that holds her bending powers. "And _you can't knock me down_."

"An empty boast if I've ever heard one." Azula's motions are bored, indolent. Her fingers adjust her hair, smooth it back into a semblance of its earlier perfection. "Actions speak far louder than words, dear cousin—"

"Oh, I know." And then Katara's arms are snapping forward, hurling two streams of fountain water as they go. Her lungs are tight and twisted with the effort, droplets are falling onto her head and into her eyes, sluicing down to soak her clothes, and she grunts with the effort it takes to force the water into ice, but—

Azula's liquid amber eyes twitch, squint with the force of her befuddlement. Trembling fingers pat their way across the lower half of her face, as she's unable to make sense of her current state. A thick mask of ice folds over the lower half of her face, effectively cutting off her nostrils' and mouth's paths to oxygen. And speech.

Jeong Jeong _claps_.

"At least I can_ use_ my words," Katara says loftily, right before her knees buckle.

* * *

"YOU _DO_ REALIZE that you've signed your own death warrant?" Zuko tosses a plush crimson towel into her lap.

Katara thinks of the last time she was soaking wet around him and digs her face into the towel to cover her blush. Well, at least she's wearing _clothes_ this time.

"Your sister doesn't scare me." A lie, but what's one lie on a mountain of others?

Prince Zuko slides down beside her, arms draped over his knees. "It's not often that I see Azula lose her temper. She's going to be _after_ you, do you understand?"

"She already was," Katara whispers, drawing the towel away from her face, crumpling it into a ball in her lap. The flush in her cheeks has faded to two barely-there pinpricks of heat. "All I did was prove to her that I won't be bullied."

Zuko rakes his palm over his scalp, shoots her a rueful look from the corner of his eye. His face is trapped in that perpetual scowl of his, like she's inconveniencing him by virtue of her mere existence but his tone borders on the sympathetic. "She wanted to control you, before. Pull you into her group of friends. Now she'll just want to kill you."

"It can't be the first time she's lost," is the Waterbender's lofty retort.

"Don't be so sure about that," he mumbles.

Katara crosses her legs at the ankles, leans her head against the couch's back. She doesn't know why Zuko stuck around after hauling her back to her room, but she doesn't want him to leave. Maybe because she swears that Lu Ten's ghost nestles in every unoccupied corner, ready to slurp her soul out through her nose. Maybe for…other reasons.

"Princess Azula told me your cousin—your other cousin—used to live in this room."

Zuko pulls every muscle into his body into a long line of tension. The temperature in the room actually _drops_.

"My sister lies a lot. But that—that _is_ true. This was Lu Ten's room."

"I almost didn't believe her myself, but. But, your uncle—my father—confirmed it." She blinks water out of her eyes, feels it dribble down her cheeks in the way tears would. She says nothing about the coat.

"He loved Lu Ten more than anything in this life. And then he lost him to the glory of war." Zuko braces his elbows on his knees, slants forward to examine the curled toes of his shoes. "Lu Ten's death changed him. He used to be a revered general, a sterner man. Not as ambitious as my own father, maybe not ambitious at all. But he wasn't the lazy, happy old man you know."

Katara works her hair out of her braid, spreads it along her shoulders to dry, and remains silent. The more information she has, the better. But this information won't get her anywhere in terms of her goal, will it? Her fingers clench in the towel, twitch with the urge to tear it to shreds. She's been her for days already, and _she's wasted so much time_.

Instead of screaming her frustration, she says, "Your family's missing quite a few pieces, isn't it?" She has yet to see a woman with a crown in her hair, and can't help but assume—

"Yes, it is." The reply is simple, free of temper, free of even misery. His voice has smoothed over into a horrid kind of blankness, and Katara recognizes that blankness for what it is—disguising your own turmoil with bone-deep, deliberate lack of feeling. The agony he feels must be acute indeed, if even this volatile boy can bring himself to mask it with apathy.

Zuko swivels around, bumps his knees into hers. "I think I understand why Uncle's so attached to you. He lost one child. Finding another must be a miracle in his eyes."

She winces with something like guilt.

"A strong child, too." His smooth lips part on an abrupt, genuine smile, and Katara's heart bounds in her chest because _she was not expecting that_, and yes, he _is_ handsome, there's no doubt or conflict about it.

_It's like watching the sun come out. _

"Uncle would be proud of you, Katara."

_I don't want his pride. I just want to live long enough to do what I came here for._

"What about you?" she challenges, slanting forward, gripping the towel to her chest like she's trying to hold her heartbeat in with that flimsy barrier.

"I never object to watching someone take my sister down a peg or two," is all he says. His palm grazes her freed hair, and then he's on his feet, tracing his way to the open door. "Lu Ten," he says, hesitating, "would be proud, too."

Katara stuffs her face between her up drawn knees and tells herself that getting attached to an old man, a young man's ghost, and an even younger man's disarming smile will only impede her mission.

She needs to take Admiral Jeong Jeong's words about restraint to heart.


End file.
